


Tall Dark and Brooding

by Motherof4dragons



Category: The Rookie (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, F/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Motherof4dragons/pseuds/Motherof4dragons
Summary: LucyOne bad decision doesn't define you. Right?That's what I kept telling myself, but then I walked smack dab into another one.A six-foot-two, hands the size of dinner plates, turns my insides to jelly kind of mistake. It wasn’t my intention to kiss my professor, but I wasn't aware it was Dr. Tim Bradford until he let me up for air and peeled his palms from my ass.We can thank my unwanted admirer for that.Now, he's offering me the protection of his reputation and the title of his fake girlfriend. The perfect solution, right? After all, there’s no way I'll fall for Mr. Tall Dark and Brooding.
Relationships: Lucy Chen & Jackson West, Tim Bradford & Lucy Chen, Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 102





	1. The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that takes place at a school and has a music theme. It's possibly my favorite thing I've ever written.
> 
> Hope you like it...
> 
> Oh, I posted it in its entirety.

Lucy

**_September_ **

I should  _ not _ have had that last shot. 

Frankly, I shouldn't have had the first. 

_ But the third?  _

That was a bad decision. 

It's the last Sunday before fall classes start at Calgary Conservatory and 4:4, the local piano bar, is overflowing with students. Each is attempting to get one more drink in, one more fling out of their system; before we buckle down, and the real work begins.

4:4 is always loud and crowded. When it isn't putting on scheduled shows, which they do two-three times a week, it's a free for all at the piano bench. And the guitar, and the microphone. And whichever random instruments are hauled across the street from the practice rooms to the stage available for the patrons to play.

There's a certain feeling of  _ frenzieness _ in the air tonight. The boisterous laughing is a smidgen too raucous, the singing a little too strained. Calgary Conservatory is the most prestigious performing arts school in the nation. It's not for the faint of heart. 

When we let loose, we  _ really _ let go.

It's boredom, more than anything else, that makes me order the last shot of vodka. Boredom has always been my downfall. Most of the bad choices I've made in my life are traced directly back to the doldrums that come from studying one subject since I was little more than a baby. 

I knew the moment I watched Beauty and the Beast at age five that I was going to be a musician. I cried my eyes out when the beast became a prince. Not because he was the hero, but because the music supporting him was just so  _ beautiful _ . Still, that doesn't mean that it doesn't become tedious now and then.

Jackson, my brother from another mother, was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But he's late, as usual. I'm in my fifth year at Calgary, my first in the master's program. It puts me apart from the other students in the bar. While I get hugs and cheek kisses as dancers and performers make their way in and out of the building, no one stays to talk. I am the same, yet oh so different now.

Hence, the shots.

As the liquor slides down my throat and loosens the vertebrae in my spine, I feel spiders crawl all over my neck. I can feel the eyeballs boring into my head and look left and right until I finally see Caleb sitting several seats down from me at the bar. He's alone too, but that's because he's universally hated.

I pull my phone from my pocket, texting Jackson as quickly as I can.

_ Where are you? Rescue me! Mall Cop is here. _

I feel bad for using the nickname the undergrads gave Caleb. I liked the Caleb Blart movies. It's rude to disrespect them by throwing  _ our _ Caleb into the mix. But the name stuck. And he hates it, so I use it.

_ Two minutes. Lay one on me when I get there. That'll shut him up. _

Two minutes. 

Two minutes could last a  _ very  _ long time. I glance at Caleb against my better judgment, and he's staring at me, licking his lips. I feel like a pork chop. One that's undercooked and poorly seasoned. He waggles his eyebrows in my direction, and I have to swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

Boredom. It kills me every time. I went on one date with Caleb at the end of last semester. One. 

_ Why _ ? 

You guessed it. Because I hadn't had a date in two years and my vibrator needed new batteries. He'd been asking me,  _ hounding _ me, for weeks, and I figured letting him buy me dinner one time wouldn't cause any lasting damage. 

_ How wrong I was. _

I sent a mass SOS message before we even got to the appetizers and was out of there with a fake emergency five minutes later. 

The door opens, and I think I see blonde hair, but I can't be sure.

I rise from the barstool, and Caleb mimics my motions, lifting his leg and pushing away as I try to lose myself in the crowd. 

_ I fail _ . 

For all that his slimy personality gives him a small demeanor in appearance, he's still rather tall. Bad, because he can see me over the crowd, but beneficial because I can see  _ him _ closing the distance. 

Son of a biscuit.

I create and discard random escape plans, each one more outlandish than the one before.

_ There! _

Jackson, bless his heart, is finally pushing his way through the crowd. Or he was. 

_ Gosh darn it _ , he's moving in the wrong direction! I feel my sternum collapse with the feeling of miserable surrender.

_ No. Absolutely not. _

I refuse to start my master's program like this. If I begin the school year  _ this _ depressing, I'll spend the whole semester singing arias about cow farming and pig manure. I won't allow it.

I don't give Caleb the chance to catch up to me, using my slight size to dart in and out of couples and groups, making my way to the scraggly haired asshole that's supposed to be my best friend. With a final lunge and a gasp of celebration, I grab him by the wrist and yank him around to face me. Not caring that fifty percent of this bar knows who we are, and that Jackson is  _ incredibly _ taken, I climb him like a tree and plant my lips against his.

When suddenly I realize I've gone from  _ bad _ to  _ worse _ .

The first thing I notice is that the man pressed up against me  _ isss _ — _ not _ Jackson. 

Sure, they  _ do _ have similar body types. Easy to confuse in my moment of panic and slight inebriation. It becomes obvious, however, as I arch on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around this man's neck, that  _ there _ is where the similarities stop.

Whereas Jackson has the body of a dancer, powerful and robust, he's slight for all that; lithe and tightly compressed. The man with his chest pressed up against mine is broad, like a football player. Or an opera singer. The sharp intake of breath he sucked down when my lips hit his expanded his pecs like a balloon filling with air, and I swear he doubled in size under my fingertips. 

The lips molding with mine are lush and full. The face they belong to has a five o'clock shadow rough against my cheeks. Not that I don't appreciate it. The sting adds a new texture to our kiss, and I find myself trying to get another millimeter or so on my tippy toes so that I can bring myself closer to it. 

Still, though, Jackson has a baby face. Couldn't get scruffy if his life depended on it.

Jackson is of average height. 5'11 at the most.  _ This _ man? He towers above me, so much so that as I crane to reach his lips, he dips and kisses me deeper, bringing the mountain to Mohammed.

And Jackson? Well, he'd never palm my ass like that.  _ Ever _ . Just the thought brings a giggle to the surface. Which my mystery man uses to his advantage, plunging his tongue in and exploring my mouth when I part my lips to laugh.

I should probably be more upset that a stranger is caressing me in a bar. But since I started it, and it feels  _ so _ very nice, I decide to forgive the newcomer for his tiny indiscretion. 

I let my nails graze against his scalp, and he moans into my mouth. 

It was an accident. 

I was simply trying to better my grip. 

So, I didn't slip. 

_ That's believable? Right? _

Instead, he hauls me closer, bending his knees and lifting me as if I weigh nothing more than air. Wrapping my legs around his waist can't be held against me either. 

What else was I supposed to do with them?

The sounds around us fade into nothing. Instead, I hear trumpets, heralding the returning conquer. Saxophone riffs trill up my spine, and Whitney Houston returns from the grave to belt 'I Have Nothing' into my ear. 

He kisses me with a desperation that would steal my breath away.  _ If I had any to spare _ . There's a beast I feel rumbling in his chest, straining against his skin and begging to be let loose. 

I'd be more than happy to release it from its confines. 

We've been kisses for ages: months, maybe years. Or perhaps, it's only been seconds. What I do know is the symphony we're composing is rudely interrupted by whistles and howling and clapping so obnoxious it makes my ears hurt, and my face scrunches up in distress. 

Which is when I remember I'm in a bar.  _ Hanging off a stranger. _

He seems to come to the same realization. His body, moments ago pliable and molded against mine like we were two halves of a whole, suddenly stiffens under my touch. The hands that were supporting me fly away as if I'm on fire, and my feet drop to the floor weighted in cement.

My eyes open as if waking from a trance. It's the only excuse I have for what just happened. 

_ Hypnotized _ ? 

_ Drugged _ ? 

Or perhaps I had an out of body experience.

The noise fades for a second time, as reality smacks me harder than a drummer on a snare. 

I'm seeing double. I'm going to be sick.

There in front on me, lips swollen and eyes, as glazed as mine, stands Dr. Tim Bradford. The head of the Strings Department for Calgary Conservatory, and the meanest professor on the campus. And beside him, like some pale shadow imitation of the God I just climbed off of, is Jackson. Giving me the slow clap with eyes of wonder like I just won a Tony. 

_ Crap on Toast. I am so screwed.  _

I should have just talked to Caleb.


	2. The Offer

Tim

The first few days of class are always a clusterfuck. I've learned to accept it. Even though I teach at the Master's and Doctorate levels, and those students  _ should _ know their way around by now. 

It's still "Sorry, Dr. Bradford" and "Excuse me, Dr. Bradford," as people trip in and out of my classroom at all hours. It's infuriating. If you're good enough to have made it into the most advanced music program in the country, then you damn well better be able to make it to your classes on time.

I'm on my way back to my office when I hear the most annoying sound on the planet drift into the hallway. Caleb Blart is a part-time teacher aid, full-time pain in the ass. It stops me in my tracks, and I can't help but cringe at the grating of his voice. He graduated three years ago, and while he is a fantastic Bassist, his attitude is horrible. He gave up looking for full-time work with a symphony and ended up right back here. They say that those that can't do teach. Well, those that can't do either are Caleb. Now he spends his time running errands for the real professors and lording what little power it gives him over the undergrads. 

I'd heard a rumor that he'd finally found a position in a group that does movie soundtracks, but I guess it was false hope. Or they kicked him out. Either is a likely scenario. 

Trying to keep the disgust off my face, I resume my march when a second voice again stops me in my tracks.  _ Lucy Chen. _ Images of last night's kiss run pell-mell through my brain, and before I've registered the decision to do so, my feet take me in the direction of the half-open doorway. 

The room is spacious when empty. Designed for optimal acoustics, even the quietest of whispers can echo in the space. And Caleb is not trying to be quiet.

"That was quite the show you put on last night. Was it for me? You didn't need to entice me by showing off the goods. I want you as bad now as I did last year."

Her back is long and straight, but the little piss-ant has her pinned up against the wall. Not by force, he's not holding her there with his hands. But she's cornered all the same. Caleb is crowding into her space, probably pushed her back until she ran out of room to run. While her face is coated with a grimacing sort of smile, her eyes are darting everywhere, looking for a way to escape. Or praying someone shows up to rescue her.

"Look, Caleb. I—."

He cuts her off, hoping that if he talks over her, she won't get the chance to turn him down.

"It's a shame our time together last year got cut short. I can't wait to get you alone. Saturday? I can tell by the way you kissed him; how bad you want me."

Oh, Jesus. My fists clench in anger. Maybe I make a sound or cringe in disgust at the filth spewing from the imbecile's mouth, but Lucy's eyes jerk in my direction. When they lock with mine, a thousand emotions fly across her face; fear, revulsion, relief, and panic. It takes me no time at all to come to a decision. 

"Lucy, there you are. I thought we were meeting in my office after classes were over." 

Her eyes widen momentarily in confusion, but with a flick of my brow, she grasps the concept.

"I was. _ I am _ . I'm sorry, I'm running late. Caleb wanted to take a moment and catch up about summer break. It's great seeing you again, Caleb, but Dr.—," I mouth my first name in exaggerated motions, and she trips over her tongue correcting mid statement "Tim and I have plans for this evening. We can talk another time."

I close the distance between us while she's talking and thread my fingers through hers, not bothering to give Caleb any of my attention. Before she even finishes her brush off, I'm pulling her against me, then behind me as I drag her from the room. 

We're several feet down the hallway when I stop, remembering I actually have something to say to him. 

"Stay here," I order, then let go of her hand, only to entwine our fingers again on the other side.  _ Good job, asshole _ . Bark at her like a dog then pull her on a leash.  _ Genius _ .

Leaning into the doorway, Caleb's in the same spot I left him, looking sullenly at the door.

"Since you're still the TA this semester, be expecting an email from me with schedules I need made and sent to my 1st year Doctoral candidates. I need them by Thursday."

At that, I pull a flabbergasted Lucy Chen behind me as I make my way to my office. 

****

Twitter pated is the only word I can think of to describe Lucy's composure. I sit at my desk, leaning back in the chair, watching with amusement as she sits, stands, then sits again in quick succession. I try to keep my face as neutral as I can while she battles whatever demons she's dealing with, and firmly shut my mind to the image of her taking me apart with her mouth last night. 

"I am  _ so _ sorry, Dr. Bradford.  _ So _ sorry. For what you just witnessed, and for last night." Her voice becomes tight and squeaky, and that charming Canadian drawl she has is so pronounced I could swim in it.

She's still rambling her apologies, but I zone out when a shadow crosses my door. Twenty to one it's the piss-ant checking to see if we're in here.

"Lucy."

She flinches when I say her name. I make an effort to not take my anger out on her, and to moderate my tone.

"Lucy," I try again. "What the hell is going on? Is Caleb harassing you?" 

She closes her eyes and her chin tips upwards. I wonder if she's praying.

"I got bored," she mumbles under her breath.

My eyebrow arches in curiosity.

"Last semester, Caleb," she hesitates as if she's searching for an appropriate word, " _ pursued _ me to go out on a date. Rather emphatically. In the hopes of making him lose interest, and because I had nothing better to do, I agreed. It did not end well. I skipped out before the food was even served. However, he seems to think that it did. Or maybe he doesn't particularly care."

That doesn't surprise me. You could run that man over with an elephant, and he'd still think it was a zebra. If he didn't have a fantastic ear for music, we'd have been rid of him ages ago. 

"Last night, and again, I deeply apologize." I wave off her apologies. I don't want them; I want explanations.

"I saw him last night at 4:4, and he was on his way to approach me. I messaged my best friend, who told me he'd be there in a few minutes. I thought I saw him when I grabbed you."

"Ah," I say, and leave it at that. I ignore the way my heart swoops into my stomach, keeping my face blank. I know she didn't kiss me on purpose. Of course, she didn't. She doesn't even know who I am. We've spoken twice before today; when her cellist fell ill, and I backed her in performance two years ago. 

Still, I'll be thinking about that kiss long after she's forgotten it.

"Jackson, my friend, told me to kiss him when he got there, to scare Caleb off. I thought I saw him moving through the crowd, and I reached out and yanked him to me, and well—you know what happens when you assume. Anyway. Again I—."

I cut her off before she has a chance to apologize,  _ again, _ and chop my manhood in half.

"Caleb. Talk to me about Caleb."

She shakes her head wildly side to side, her straight black locks twirling around her.

"It's fine. I can handle Caleb."

"Like that's working out so well. We need to report him. Now."

"No," she says, and there's a forlornness to her voice that ups my anger at the man. 

"It's his word against mine, and I did go on a date with him after all. Besides, he hasn't technically done anything yet. Just, pestered me until my brain wants to implode. He's on the student advisory board. As obnoxious as he is, and please don't tell him this, he's still pretty good at his job. I simply need to avoid him until he loses his interest. It shouldn't take long." 

She's nibbling on her finger. I scoff at the idea that any man could lose his interest in her. Polite as a southern belle, with a sheet of black hair and hips that could cure cancer, she draws the attention of every man who watches her walk through the hallways. Her skin is fawn colored, like a baby deer. Or maybe bronze, like a precious metal.

"You said he was there last night?"

She nods, letting her head fall with the skin of her finger between her teeth. I let go of my breath in a long exhale, trying to shut down the side of my brain that remembers what her teeth feel like with my lip in between them.

"Then maybe seeing us together today will scare him off permanently. If he bothers you again, tell him to come to see me."

Her head rises in a rush, and a beautiful flush careens over her golden flesh.

"Thank you, Dr. Bradford, but that's not necessary.  _ Really _ . I've done enough to embarrass myself around you as it is. I've started looking into options to leave the school. Maybe the country. I haven't decided yet."

Her lips twerk into a cheeky little grin, and I let the sides of my mouth curve up in response.

"I take it kissing strangers isn't a habit of yours?"

I watch over steepled fingers as her pale rose blushed skin deepens to rival that of the deepest red cherry. It's intoxicating. 

"No," she breaths out, unease coating her features. "That was a one-time-only mistake." 

"Hmm," I grunt out, happy to leave it at that. Good to know I'm so regrettable.

"Are you sure you don't want me to report Mall Cop to the administration? Believe me. It would give me great pleasure to do so." 

At my reference to his nickname, she bursts into giggles, using her hands to try to smother the sounds.

"How do you know that name?" She asks, wonder lacing her voice.

I shrug again. 

"The next time he tries to talk to you, don't even give him the opportunity. Tell him you're taken, then kick him in my direction. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you again."

Her eyes bulge out of her head, but really, I don't see what the big deal is.

"Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Both?" I ask, and she gives me that little half-smile again.

"No."

"Then I don't see the harm in letting him think you're dating someone. At least until, as you say, he loses his interest." 

Fat chance of that.

I see the wheels turning in her head, processing the truth in what I've said.

"I'm a tenured professor and a department head. Trust me when I tell you, he won't want to mess with you when you're under my protection."

That finger, already misshapen with the impression of her teeth, takes root in her mouth again, and if I didn't know better, I'd say a shiver runs through her. 

I wish I could read what's going on in that beautiful head of hers.

"It would probably get around campus that we're—that we're dating, Dr. Bradford. Won't that cause you problems?"

I shrug again, and since I'm not known for my communication skills, she seems to take it in stride.

"Call me Tim, and it's fine. There's not a rule,  _ per se _ , against dating students in the advanced programs. Not that I'm aware of, at least. We're not in the same department. My other lovers won't mind sharing."

Her chin drops in silent exclamation then tilts into a giggling smile when she realizes I'm joking. She does have the most infectious laugh. 

"Dr. Bradford," I glower in her direction,  _ "Tim," _ she quickly corrects. "I don't want to put you out more than I already have. This—this whole thing is blown out of proportion. I don't want to inconvenience you more than—well. I don't want to put you out."

I give up being nice and let some of my anger slip through. Nice isn't my default mode anyway.

"What'll inconvenience me is if I'm worried about you pinned up against a classroom wall when I'm supposed to be critiquing performances. It's my choice, my idea, and my  _ pleasure _ to help you with that sleazeball." 

"You want to, to _fake_ _date_?" 

Reluctance drips from her words, and still, all I can do is shrug. It makes no difference to me what she wants to call it. So long as I never see her crowded into a corner by Caleb again, she can label it as she wants.

She hesitates, gnawing away on her knuckle, before a gorgeous, all-encompassing smile blooms over her features.

"Well, then. Yes,  _ Tim,  _ I'd love to be your fake girlfriend."


	3. The Morning After

Lucy

He knew my name. Despite everything that’s happened over the last 36 hours, that errant fact seems to keep floating to the surface of my brain. He knew who I was. I’ve run our two interactions over and over again through my memory; tearing them apart and analyzing the smallest details.

The night I kissed him; we didn’t share a word. As soon as my limbs regained their function, I grabbed Jackson by the hand and ran like my life depended on it.

In the classroom,  _ he _ spoke to  _ me _ first. Not the other way around. Somehow, in a school of almost a thousand people, in a hallway that I’ve previously spent little to no time in, Dr. Bradford,  _ Tim _ , knew who I was.

I wake up three hours before my alarm is set to go off the next morning. 

Sleep is like the most important thing in my life. Sleep and music and food. Food I have to pay for though and the other two are free.  _ Naturally _ , I sleep as much as I can. 

Not last night though. I tossed and turned every few minutes, and when I did manage to doze off, I dreamt about  _ Dr. Bradford _ pinning me against the wall. No one interrupts us if you know what I mean.

Being the modern woman that I am, I do what any sane person in my position would do; I Google fake relationships. There’s a surprisingly lot of information on the subject. It’s a familiar trope after all, even if I don’t know all that much about it. There’s rankings of movies and rankings of books. Then, there are the practical websites with how-to instructions for putting the plan into action. 

I take a minute to scoff at the ridiculousness of that notion. Who in the hell would ever need to  _ fake _ a relationship? Then I remember that I’m on this website, at four in the morning, because my brain won’t stop thinking about Dr. McHottie and his plan to save me from the Devils Spawn. 

I send my  _ sincerest _ apologies for my rudeness into the universe, lest anything sinister befall my fake boyfriend before we can get this show on the road.

Rule number one seems to be that communication is key. 

Gotcha. No problem there. 

Except —

I don’t even have Dr.— _gosh darn it!_ _Tim!_ I don’t have Tim’s phone number. I would have to look at the school website to know what his office number is. Why _would_ I have it? He’s a teacher. An anti-social grumpy one, in a completely different department. The more I think about it the more it boggles my mind. Time to move on.

Rule number two. Make sure you aren’t in a real relationship first. 

Well, that’s certainly not an issue. Not on my part at least. I can’t remember the last time I had a boyfriend. Or was even kissed. Besides approximately thirty-seven hours ago.  _ That _ kiss had enough juice to keep me fulfilled until I’m at  _ least _ through the master’s program.

Rule number three; Don’t lie to your family. 

Again, a non-issue. My family is all the way back in Georgia. I don’t see a situation where ‘ _ I’m fake dating one of the professors’ _ comes into the conversation. 

Next, it says to set PDA ground rules. I snort through my nose, rolling my eyes at the screen. I’m well past that one, aren’t I?

Last, but certainly not least, make sure you both get something out of the arrangement. 

There it is. The issue I’ve been chewing on since  _ Tim _ made this ridiculous suggestion. What could he possibly be getting from this situation? Maybe there’s an overzealous teacher following  _ him _ around campus. Or maybe he gets a kick out of rescuing damsels in distress. 

_ Perhaps this is a yearly thing for him? _

He could pick a new project each semester, like choosing a student to mentor. Only instead, he chooses an undergrad to—to what? 

I check the time on my phone, and it’s still super early. My first diction class isn’t until eight, and it’s barely six o’clock. But if I sit here much longer, my mind is going to wander from rescue scenarios to ones where I’m locked up in his basement while he plays the soundtrack to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band on repeat.

Slipping into my school clothes, which consist of yoga pants and a phantom of the opera t-shirt, I gather my school shit and head out of my apartment. I have a private practice space as part of the advanced program. I’ll rehearse until it’s time for class. Nothing clears my mind like singing excerpts from Midsummer Night’s Dream.

*****

Twelve-hour days are usually reserved for the end of the semester and for the weeks before a performance. 

Not for the third day of class. 

That’s what you get, I guess, when you arrive on campus an hour before sunrise. The day’s not even over yet. I have a two hour hold over then the community band has their first rehearsal. 

I tried to leave my saxophone in the auditorium, but there was another practice already going, so I’m stuck dragging it to the coffee shop. I consider leaving it in my practice space, but then I’d have to walk all the way back to this building before huffing to the other side of campus. Easier to just bring it with me.

My Spidey sense kicks in, and I freeze in my tracks, searching the crowded hallway for what’s made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Instead of Caleb however, I spot Tim, watching from the end of the hallway. 

He licks his lips, and I feel it in my knees. 

_ Down Girl. _

It doesn’t matter that he kisses like a Greek God, he’s completely off limits.

_ Aaand _ —he’s walking my direction.

I pull a smile on my face, ignoring the way other students scatter out of his path. He’s not  _ that _ intimidating. A little broody? Sure. But everything I know about him now says he’s a pretty good guy.

Though, what I know about him could fill up a post-it note. 

A small one.

“Lucy.”

He takes me in, eyes lingering on the Baritone Saxophone case I’m resting my arm against.

“Tim,” I say, and no, my voice doesn’t sound breathy, “Imagine seeing you here.”

“You mean on campus, where I teach, and spend sixty hours a week? What a surprise, huh.”

I’m shocked at the playful way he answers me. His voice is dry and flat, but there’s warmth and humor sparking behind his eyes.

I make a spur of the moment decision and rise on my tiptoes, placing a quick kiss on Tim's cheek. His face remains impassive, and he doesn’t say anything about my breach of  etiquette . His hand, however, rises to rest on my hip to steady me on my toes.

That simple gesture sets my blood to boil again, but I tamp it back and lock it in its cage.

But — he’s supposed to be my boyfriend after all.

“I’m on my way to the on-campus coffee shop, I still have a few hours before band practice starts. Will you join me? My treat.”

Those four little words make my blood pump so fast the room almost spins.  _ Did I just ask Tim out on a date? _

“You mean drink the swill they sell here on campus?”

He looks like I just offered him pig’s blood. The open disgust on his face makes me smile.

“Yes, dear,” I jab back, and he rolls his eyes at me. “It’s not that bad, I promise. Besides, I had something I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

He hardens instantly. His spine lengthens, shoulders tipping back, and I swear I see heat pour off him in waves. It’s a little frightening.

“Did Caleb touch you again?” He asks, and I almost trip over myself to get my words out.

“What? No! No, it’s nothing like that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. It’s just,” and now I’m nervous and regretting my decision to get out of bed this morning. I lean in close, looking around to see if anyone can overhear us. We’re all but alone in the corridor.

“I don’t really know anything about you. I just thought, maybe you’d let me buy you a cup of coffee, and we could get to know each other.”

He hesitates for a moment, and I wish I could read the expression on his face.

“Yes, of course. I’d love to have coffee, with you.”

I smile at him gratefully, and he softens around the edges, but still stands a smidgen too straight, like he’s trying not to bolt in the other direction.

This is going to be harder than I thought. I should just go home, take a Benadryl, and pray when I wake up in the morning this has all been a bad dream.

He holds the door open for me, and I maneuver the wheeled case out the door behind me.

“What are you doing with a saxophone?” He asks. “Especially one that weighs as much as you do.” He checks me out, eyes trailing from the tips of my ears, which are now flaming as red as my shirt, following my curves down to the ten-dollar Walmart tennis shoes I’m wearing. “Maybe more than you do.” 

I have to close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing before I can answer him.

“Well, growing up I played—well I played everything. If you could blow it, I can play it.”

I realize too late the way that sounds and bite my finger in embarrassment. The quick burst of pain brings my thoughts back into focus.

I can feel him watching me as we walk down the sidewalk, but I resolutely refuse to look in his direction.

“ _ Ummm _ , yeah. So, I played the saxophone, and the clarinet, and anything else the teacher had a need for. I learned the bassoon because they had sheet music, they wanted to use with a bassoon solo and we didn’t have a player.

“When I was accepted in Calgary, I had to choose between voice or instrumental. I chose voice, because that’s what I thought I was better at, but within days I was missing my instrument. By the end of the first month of classes, I was a weeping depressed mess. I love to sing, but I love the feel of the keys under my fingertips. The bass line of the baritone, keeping the rest of the woodwinds on beat and in check. 

“I was bereft,  _ grieving _ , for an instrument; as pathetic as that sounds. My advisor suggested I join the community band. My dad drove my instruments up the next weekend. Like I said, I can play any woodwind, but the Bari and the Bass Clarinet are my favorite.

“Some days I think I’ve made the wrong decision. That I don’t belong on the stage, I belong below it, in the pit. But it’s too late now.”

We’ve reached the coffee house, and we come to a stop with his hand on the handle.

“You didn’t.” He says, and it catches me off guard. 

He’s staring at me, eyes solemn and deep.

“Excuse me?” I ask, not following his conversation.

“I’ve seen you sing. You didn’t make the wrong choice. No matter how much you enjoy a physical instrument, your voice is spectacular. You chose right.”

My breath comes in a tiny gasp, and I feel the blush light over my cheeks. Coming from him, that is a high compliment indeed.

“Thank you,” I say, and he nods and pulls open the coffee house door.


	4. Coffee

Chapter Four

Lucy

  
  


“Why did you insist on coming to a coffee shop, and then order tea?”

We’re sitting at a table in the back, and he’s put his messenger bag on the table. My saxophone case is on the floor next to us, and I dip my tea bags in and out of the hot water.

We generated quite a bit of attention walking in and sitting together, but people have gone back to their own business. Or, at least, they’re hiding their gawking better.

“For one, it’s one of the only places open on campus after six p.m., and I don’t want to leave school only to have to come back in an hour. It’s too much of a hassle. Two, she doesn’t charge me for the hot water. I usually bring my own tea bags.” I shake the two empty packages in his direction. One Orange Blossom, the other Earl Grey.

“I only got the earl grey because I didn’t sleep very well last night and need the extra caffeine.” 

“Mmmm,” he responds, and brings his black coffee, no sugar, splash of cream, to his lips.

“Why didn’t you get coffee then?”

“I could have, especially if I knew you were going to insist on paying. Thank you, by the way. But I don’t actually like coffee. I love the smell of it. But can’t drink it. Doesn’t matter what flavor or how I doctor it. I simply can’t stomach the stuff.”

He laughs at me, his eyes crinkled up in amusement. It transforms him completely. His eyes are the clearest blue I’ve ever seen, and his voice reminds me of the honey in my tea. Warm smooth and comforting.

I like it.

“You’re going to travel the world, a new time zone every other day, and _not_ drink coffee. Oh Lucy, what a life you live.”

At his comment of traveling the world, I remember the websites I pulled up on my phone this morning.

“Speaking of which; we need to get to know each other more. Or, well, I want to get to know you. So, we’re going to play the first date game.”

His legs are crossed at the knees, Italian loafers covering his feet. It’s ridiculous, really, since he’s wearing jeans and a shirt that reads, ‘I Play the Cello and I Know Things.’ He closes his eyes, and I can’t help but think he’s praying for patience.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the first date game?”

“It’s not really a game, or well, I’m making it one. I have a list of questions to ask on a first date. It’ll be painless. I promise. I’ll start out with an easy one. What’s your middle name?”

He gives me a skeptical look.

“Is that really what it says?”

I flash my phone at him, but too quickly for him to actually read the screen.

“Girl Scouts honor.” I was never in the girl scouts. “What’s your middle name?” 

I actually already know this answer. It’s on his Wikipedia page. And isn’t _that_ just a little surreal. But I figured I’d ask one I already knew the answer to, to test the waters.

“Tim Jeramiah Bradford.” I beam at him ear to ear.

“Your turn. Same question.” My face falls.

“Now, you can’t go blaming me for what my momma named me. She’s a southern beauty queen, still wears pantsuits with shoulder pads. Really, it’s better if I don’t say.”

He gives me a flat look.

“Lucy Blanche Chen,” I tell him, playful regret dripping from my voice. 

He smirks, taking a sip from his cup, and points in my direction. Back to me he seems to say.

“Are you a morning person, or a night owl?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Night Owl for sure. There was a time where I didn’t get up before noon unless it was to board a plane, and then I went right back to sleep again. Same question.”

“Night Owl, absolutely. I can’t wait until I’m out of school and all my shows are eight p.m. matinees”

“Are you already auditioning?”

“No. I mean, I’ve done some work on the side, background vocals and such, but it’s important to me to finish my degree.”

He looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.

“Background vocals? Seriously Lucy? You’ve finished your degree. Why aren’t you out there working? Like I said, I’ve heard you sing. You could have been headlining years ago. Why is the Graduate program so important to you?’

My irritation spikes, and I don’t bother to try to hold in my sarcastic response.

“I don’t know, _Dr_. Bradford. You tell me?”

He shrugs and takes another sip from his coffee. “I didn’t graduate a traditional high school. Thanks to private tutors and a touring schedule before I hit puberty, I was through the master’s program before I was nineteen. It just made sense to finish it off, and a good portion of my studying was able to be done while on a tour bus.”

Oh. Well, I don’t remember reading that online. He points at me again.

“When I was younger, I thought I’d be a music therapist. Music has such a healing effect on people. I used to go to nursing homes with a karaoke machine. We’d play oldies; dance and sing together. One of the doctors told me after I’d leave the blood pressures and oxygenation of the residents were always better. He wrote one of my letters of recommendation for Calgary. 

“As I grew up, I realized I’d never be happy without the stage under my feet. I _need_ to perform, otherwise I wither and fade. But I want the degree anyway. After all, aren’t all performances a little dose of musical therapy? Doled out three hours at a time.”

“Excellently said, Lucy.” A smile blooms on his face.

We’re silent for a moment, before he points at me again.

“Oh!” I unlock my phone. 

“Do you know any good jokes.”

He gives me a flat look. “Do I look like the joking type?”

Good point.

“Okay, here’s a good one. What do you like but are embarrassed to admit?”

Something flashes on his face, but I don’t know him well enough to read it.

“I have watched every episode of the Gilmore Girls ever released, including the new series on Netflix.” At my awed expression, he clears his throat. “I even signed a protest for them to do a second round on Netflix.”

I can’t help it, laughter rips from me, and I sense patrons at the other tables turn to face us.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Are you just going to ask me the same questions I ask you all night?”

He shrugs, a gesture I’ve already started associating as _Tim_ , and not Dr. Bradford.

“I don’t have a list on my phone to pull questions from.”

Good point again.

“Give it here.” I scoot the next chair over so we’re sitting side by side instead of across from each other and make a gimme motion with my fingers. He rolls his eyes, but gamely unlocks his phone and drops it in my open hand.

First, because _apparently_ with this man, there isn’t one line, I’m not willing to cross, I put my number in his phone. Under title, I add girlfriend with a winky face, then elbow him in the arm.

“Smile,” I say, and lean in close so I can get both our faces in his camera. He doesn’t. Instead I snap a pic of me kissing his cheek and him looking bored into the camera. 

Giggles bubble out of my throat.

“That’s an accurate representation,” I joke, when I show him the picture. That does make him smile.

After I send myself a text with a copy of the picture, I pull a different set of questions up on his phone and hand it back to him.

“Your turn,” I sass in his direction.

“Do I really have to do this?”

I give him my best puppy dog eyes, the ones that always made my brother help with my chores.

He gives me an resigned look, and brings his phone into his line of sight.

“If you were to win ten thousand dollars unexpectedly, what would you do with it?”

I scoff.

“Easy, buy an instrument. Lots of them.”

When he laughs, it lights up his face. Pleasure blooms in the pit of my belly and floods into my bloodstream. It is a very good look on him. Too bad it doesn’t last long enough.

I don’t need to keep looking at my phone. I’ve been looking at this stupid list all day.

“Where have you always wanted to visit but haven’t been able to?”

Storm clouds gather behind his eyes, but before I have a chance to apologize for the question, they clear, and he replaces it with a small smile. He rotates his shoulders, and I wonder if it’s a defense mechanism.

“Nowhere. I’ve been everywhere you could dream of.”

My chest collapses in on itself and I moan out a sound of envy.

“I haven’t been anywhere. Hell, I still drive back and forth between here and Georgia.”

He smirks at me, bringing his coffee to his lips. 

“Well girlfriend of mine, tell me where you want to go and maybe I’ll take you.”

I giggle in embarrassed amusement, pushing my hair behind my ears.

“Tell me your favorite place to visit then.”

“Milan,” he says without hesitation. His eyes crinkle in genuine affection. “Italy is my favorite country in the world.”

“Do you speak Italian?” 

_“Cosa ci faccio qui con te? Sei cos_ _ì_ _bello. I tuoi capelli sembrano bronzo filato al chiaro di luna._ _”_

My jaw hits my chest as the language falls from his lips. The ground drops from underneath me as tingles burst from my spine and explode all over my body

He mistakes my expression for surprise, and chuckles at my reaction.

“Don’t speak the language then, huh?” He quirks.

No, I don’t. Not really. But I’ve been studying opera since I was twelve. I can sing in Italian, read it—and I understand it just fine.

_What am I doing here with you? You are so beautiful. Your hair looks like spun copper in the moonlight._

I roughly clear my throat, trying to gather my wits about me.

“No,” I breath, body still processing what he’s said. “I don’t”

“Shame.” He shrugs. “ _Sei cos_ _ì_ _bello.”_

_You are so beautiful._

*****  
  


“So,” he says, humor dripping from his voice. “We’re high as kites, not even able to walk a straight line, when we’re shoved unceremoniously onto the stage. We bow, take our positions, and he smacks a chord on the piano for me to tune from.

“It’s the opening chord for the Chopin piece we’re supposed to play, and also the opening chord for Smooth Criminal, if you close one eye and squint real hard.”

“Oh, no,” I gasp, and he throws his head back and laughs at my response.

“Oh, yeah. So here I am. _Dumdum dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdumdumdum_ , and Grey, man, he doesn’t miss a beat, just joins right in.

“The audience is into it. Surprised, but nodding in rhythm with the beat. The organizer is off to the side of the stage, losing her ever loving mind. She’s flailing her arms, stomping her feet. She looked like Godzilla about to rampage the city. I couldn’t see the conductor, but to this day, Grey still swears he said, ‘fuck it,’ before half the orchestra joined in. They either all knew it by heart, or where able to pick it out easily enough. By the end of the song, the entire audience was on their feet singing along.”

We’re sitting side to side, having migrated closer while we were talking. Or, we would be sitting shoulder to knee. His arm is thrown around the back of my chair, and he picks his empty cup up and gives it a shake, as if it’s magically refilled since the last ten times, he’s done that.

I’ve turned so I’m facing him, one leg pulled into my lap, so my knee is resting on his thigh. The foot he has crossed over his knee is resting on my ankle. 

I’m laughing, tipped into his lap, tears running down my face, and I think I feel him touch my hair, before I right myself and see the barista walking towards us.

“Hey guys,” she says, a regretful smile on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave. We’re getting ready to lock up.”

The laughter melts from my face and Tim and I turn together to stare at her, then look at each other instead. We both reach for our phones, confirming the ten thirty time staring back at me. As if the international time keeping union, _and_ _Tanya_ , so says her nametag, are both lying to him, he twists his wrist up to check his watch as well.

“You missed practice,” he says, in a tone I can’t quite decipher.

“Oops,” I giggle out, then at his horrified expression, I burst into full-fledged laughter again.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s not like it’s for a grade or anything.”

His scowl only makes me laugh harder.

The barista is still standing there, an amused expression on her face.

“We actually close at ten, but Ms. Patty said that ya’ll looked so cute, we could let you stay until we’d finished the evening chores.”

 _Cute_. She said we look cute together.

Sure enough, I glance around the room, and the tables have been wiped, chairs tipped upside down. The closed sign is in the door. The only thing out of place are Tim and I, sitting hunched together in the back of the room.

_How did we not see it happening?_

Tim stands, picking his bag up from the table. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, handing the barista a wad of cash. From the flabbergasted way she stubbles over her thank you, it must have been a lot of money.

He beats me to my saxophone, grabbing it by the handle and hauling to its wheels. I try to coax it from him, but he shrugs his shoulders and makes an _after you_ , motion, gesturing me to go in front of him.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says, and looks to me for direction.

“Oh, yeah. I don’t have a car. I live a few blocks down from campus. I walk back and forth.”

The horrified expression is back, and I pull my lips tight across my teeth to keep from laughing at him.

“You. _Walk_?” He says, like I’m speaking in a different language. “Alone, in New York. What about when it snows?”

It’s my turn to shrug my shoulders.

He rolls his eyes and laces his fingers with mine, resignation coating his features like a sheet.

“Well then, girlfriend of mine. I guess I’m taking you home.

  
  
  
  



	5. October

Tim

**_October_ **

I should not be doing this. I should  _ not _ be doing this.

I walk through the vocal building, gathering alarmed and astonished looks alike. I can tell simply from the facial expressions which kids have heard I’m dating Lucy and those who haven’t. The ones that haven’t scatter out of my way, frightened off by my less than friendly reputation. The ones that have, linger, wondering what in the world she sees in me.

Luckily, there’s only a handful of students on campus this late.

Funny, I don’t think of Lucy as a kid.

She’s here, as usual. Except instead of practicing, she’s giving a private lesson. I know, because I’ve talked to her every day for the last month. We’ve texted—we’ve called. She’s dragged me to that stupid coffee shop half a dozen times. 

We’ve become friends, as strange as that sounds to my ear.

I’ve spoken to Lucy more in the last month than I have to any other person in the previous several years. Maybe ever. Lord knows my last relationship wasn’t based on mutual discussion.

Which is the only excuse I have for walking up unannounced into her practice space.

_ She’s singing.  _

It’s a simple song, hardly a challenge for a musician of her skill. For all that, though, when she hits the high G during the first verse, I close my eyes to savor the vibrato in her voice better.

“See what I did there, Julie? Don’t force the sound out through your nose. Support it from your diaphragm. You should be able to feel the sound bouncing off your hard pallet.”

I lean my shoulder against the doorframe; ankles crossed at my feet. I’m strapped front and back with instruments, and I stick my hands in between me and the electric case, letting it support their weight. Lucy doesn’t know I’m here; her back is towards the door.

The child she’s with sure does, though, and her eyes flick to me every few seconds. I give her a hard stare, angling my head towards Lucy, encouraging her to pay attention. A blush rises over her cheeks, and she whips her head around with force. 

At the weird behavior of her student, Lucy looks behind her, and a smile blossoms over her features.

“Tim,” she breathes, and the sound of it makes my heart stutter in my chest. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes widen at the sight of me. Hard-shelled cello case strapped to my back; cloth covered electric cello over my torso. Of course, she doesn’t know that’s what’s in here. It looks like a bass guitar. She’s probably wondering what the fuck I’m doing carrying half a strings section on my back.

“Almost done?” I ask, ignoring the question on her face.

“Yes, actually. We’re just waiting for Julies momma to get here.”

The girl jumps at the sound of her name, pulling a pink and glittery cell phone from her pocket. 

“She’s here, Ms. Chen.” 

I grin at the title. Lucy grins back. We stand there staring at each other until the toddler standing beside us, clears her throat in embarrassment.

_ What the fuck is wrong with me? _

A heartbeat later, a woman who could be Julie’s older sister joins me in the doorway. I leave my post and wander into Lucy’s practice space, taking in the neat piles of sheet music, the stacks of CD’s and the keyboard shoved into the corner.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way they keep their inner sanctum. She’s neat, methodical. There’s everything from opera, Broadway, French, German. A Justin Timberlake CD mixes in with the soundtrack from Dear Evan Hanson. 

I look up when the room quiets, and she’s watching me pick through her stuff. She grins, and the urge to scowl at her is strong. 

I try. I do.

Instead, I smile softly at her, meeting her in the middle of the tiny space. We’re alone. There’s no one around to observe our relationship. Still, she rises on her tiptoes and places a gentle and sweet kiss on the scruff of my cheek. Her hand lingers on my shoulder as she tries to maneuver around the instruments, weighing me down.

I bring my hand to her face, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

She runs her knuckle through her teeth, and the action, so fraught with anxiety the first time I saw it, sends all the blood in my body racing straight to my dick.

“This is a pleasant surprise.”

_ This was a bad idea. _

“I have a gig tonight. I thought you might want to go.”

_ But I’ve never been one to let bad ideas stop me from what I wanted. _

Her eyes widen in pleasure, and an adorable blush crests over her cheekbones.

“Really? Where? When? Is that why you have a guitar strapped to your chest?”

The urge to kiss her is overwhelming. My heart is pounding out of my chest. I play with the ends of her hair and swallow past the last of my pulse in my throat.

“It’s not a guitar.”

“Informative, thanks,” she quips, that southern drawl thick with her thank you.

“If you want to find out the rest, I guess you have to come with me.”

She grins, and as it blooms into a smile I’ve come to crave, she leans onto her tiptoes again and graces my cheek with another kiss.

*****  
  


I drop my car off with the valet, and when it seems like Lucy is getting ready to join the queue outside the club, I entwine our fingers and pull her with me.

As we round the corner to the side of the building, I knock on the steel door. When it pushes outward, Lucy circles herself in my arms. She smells like flowers and oranges, and I wonder when's the last time she had a cup of tea.

I keep our fingers linked as I drag her behind me through the club. Her eyes are wide as we make our way through a small kitchen, then into a back area filled with couches and amps and men laughing and drinking and smoking. 

Grey notices us first, and he smacks his neighbor hard it the gut, pointing in our direction. One by one, silence fills the green room as all eyes fall on Lucy. Someone whistles, and as the tension in the room mounts, Lucy smiles and gives a little wave.

I drop my hand and roll my eyes at the dramatics and flip the guys the bird before slipping my first cello from my shoulders.

"Guys, this is Lucy. Lucy, the guys."

She waves and says hello, her accent thick on her tongue. I love how her accent fluctuates depending on her mood. 

She’s shooting me glances that say  _ don't be such an asshole _ . I chuckle under my breath. Little does she know. If I were any sweeter to these guys, they'd think I had a brain tumor.

My electric is next, and I prop it up against a wall. 

Grey, my closest friend— _ shit _ , my only friend—gives me a curious look, his eyebrows raised to his hairline, before handing me his tumbler of liquor. I take a swig, enjoying how the flavor bursts on my tongue, and the brandy burns its way down my throat. After a second glance at Lucy, pulled into the middle of the band, I swallow back the rest.

I'm going to need the liquid courage tonight.

Grey, bless his soul, doesn't say a word.

They introduce themselves one at a time; name and instrument. At the mention of music, Lucy becomes putty in their hands, eager for any scrap of information they're willing to give.

"Hello, sweet thang," Damaris croons at her, grasping her hand and bringing her fingers to his lips. "What in God's name are you doing here with this old stick in the mud?"

She looks at me over her shoulder, and I read the panic clear as day.  _ 'What do you want me to say to him _ ,' her eyes seem to scream.

Seeing him touch her does something to me, and I stride up next to her, lacing our fingers again. 

"Fuck off," I say to the room at large, then pull her beside me and lead her out of the room. Cheers and laughter follow us down the hallway.

"That was interesting," she giggles, and I scoff at her obvious amusement.

There's a section roped off to the side, reserved for VIPs. And for the band to migrate to in between sets. I take her to it, letting the server know she's on the house tonight.

"Still not going to tell me what's going on?" She asks, voice pitched and playful over the murmuring of the other patrons.

"You're a musician. If you haven't figured it out by now, that's your fault."

I push her hair behind her ears, towering over her, where she sits in the booth. My skin feels hot and tight, and it's a physical strain not to drop a kiss to her lips. 

"Tim Bradford," she purrs. "Bad boy cellist, boyfriend, and secret bluesman."

Desire churns deep in my gut when she calls me her boyfriend. I know I can't have her, but it doesn't stop the want. 

"Promise me that you won't tell anyone about this?"

Her smile widens, a spark of delight behind her eyes.

"What? You mean you don't want the whole campus to know you moonlight as a blues musician?"

I smirk.

"I do have a reputation to protect after all."

"I wonder what would happen to that  _ reputation _ ," and she's mocking when she says it, "If everybody knew you the way I did?"

Nothing. No one would believe a word Lucy said. I'm still an asshole, even if she brings out something softer in me. Though, I sometimes wonder what she sees when she smiles at me like that.

"I better get back."

She nods her head, her finger between her teeth, and I'm a heartbeat from leaning over and replacing it with my tongue when her eyes flick upwards, and I feel an arm around my shoulder.

"I hate to steal your man here, but we're on in twenty."

Her smile is angelic, pleasure brimming from her eyes.

"Just make sure you give him back."

Grey groans in my ear, bending at the knees at her saucy reply.

He's silent on the way back to the green room, but as soon as we step through the doorway, raucous laughter and clapping assault my senses.

"Tim got himself a woman," someone yells, followed by other, not so gentlemanly opinions on the situation.

I shoot them all a nasty look, walking over to my instruments.

"It's not like that, guys. She's just a friend. She's a student at the school."

"Damn, Tim! You banging a student? I didn't know you had it in you, man."

Grey pretends to bow, while the others drop into a chant of, 'we're not worthy.' I throw my resin at their heads. The laughter is hard and instantaneous, the band bending in half in their hilarity. 

"I'm not banging her,"  _ unfortunately _ , "and don't fucking talk about her like that."

The anger lacing my voice just sets them off more. I drop into a chair, pulling my acoustic cello with me. I tune it by ear, warming up the strings and flexing my fingers.

"For real though," Grey says, and some of the chatter dies down, all eyes turned in my direction. "I ain't seen with you a lady on your arm for a damn long time. What's up with the girl?"

"We ain't ever seen him with a girl on his arm. It must be true fucking love," Damaris cackles from the couch. 

Grey and I have known each other since our touring days. The  _ first _ batch of tours. He's a classically trained prodigy pianist, performing since he could stand up to pee. Not that you can tell it by looking at him. We dress for comfort and sweat during these shows. People come for the music, not the clothes.

I shrug my shoulders, rotating them back and forth. The cello may be a classical instrument, but it takes the body and mind's flexibility to coax more than twinkle little star from its depth.

"She's a friend," I say, and pray that he leaves it at that.

"Fair enough, man. She's a pretty young thing, though. If you ain't tapping that, maybe I'll go out and introduce myself."

I freeze in the motions of plugging my electric into an amp.

"Yeah," pipes up one of the guys taking a drag from his joint, "If she ain't your property, maybe I'll see if she wants to come home with me tonight. I could offer her a hell of a better time than you could."

They laugh and snicker, but white-hot anger licks up my spine. I loosen my hold on my bow, afraid I'm going to snap it in my hand. My muscles shake with the need to stand up and beat him with it.

"If you even fucking look in her direction, I'll break all your fucking fingers," I growl, heat lacing my words.

The room grinds to a halt, the violence in my voice momentarily stealing the sound from the air. Until they explode into laughter, Grey tipping over in his chair.

"Tim's in fucking loooooove, man," he cackles, and I roll my eyes and go back to my instrument.


	6. Hot for Teacher

Lucy

When you think of blues music, the cello isn't the first thing that comes to mind. From this moment onward, though, I won't be able to think of it any other way.

Tim is onstage, his acoustic cello on a stand next to him, a cerulean blue electric cello resting between his knees. His hair's a mess; sweat is pouring down his face. He's torn his bow to shreds from the acrobatics on the instruments. 

There's a tumbler of golden honeyed liquor sitting at his feet, and the curvy flirty server working the font of the house never lets it get too low. 

By the way he's grinning, and swaying with the motion of his bow, I sense I'll be driving home tonight.

He looks so free. I could never imagine seeing him this way in person. I've seen a glimpse of it from time to time, watching an old performance on YouTube, or when he tells me a story. But nothing like the pure exuberance pouring from his body right now.

It's exhilarating to watch.

He leans back in his chair, letting the guitarist riff for a time. I catch his eye, and he rises from his seat, sitting the cello and bow to the side. He leans down and whispers something in the pianist's ear, taking the vape off the piano and pulling it deep into his lungs.

Tim bounds off the stage, dodging customers and servers alike until he's leaning over the top of me, grinning like a devilish fiend.

"Like it?" He asks as if I haven't been quietly soaking my panties, watching him on the stage for the last two hours.

"Better than sex," I reply. 

Maybe I've had a little much to drink tonight too.

"Oh, baby girl," he growls out, and I flush in pleasure at the unexpected term of endearment. He closes the space between us, his hands supporting his frame against the table.

The muscles in his arms flex and quake, straining against the puny constraints of his 'Cellists do it better," t-shirt.

"If you think  _ this _ is better than sex, then you haven't been doing it right."

My head tips upward, my gaze sucked in by his intoxicating presence. 

_ “Vorrei fare l'amore con te come un dio al sole. Ma io non sono un dio. Sono un mostro che cammina nell'ombra _ .”

_ I would make love to you like a God in the sun. But I'm not a God. I'm a monster who walks in the shadows. _

Holy Fucking Shit.

Tim wraps his hand around my throat, thumb sharp under my jaw.

“The road to hell,” he mumbles against my lips.

He kisses me, licking into my mouth without a moment's hesitation. He smells like sweat, and whiskey, and power. He tastes me, teases me, and when I'm a panting, dripping, sopping mess, he pulls away and jumps back on the stage.

Well, crap on toast. 

I've got it bad for teacher.


	7. November

Tim

**_November_ **

4:4 is a packed house tonight, as always. Grey is at my side, covertly checking out the bevy of college students that are ten years too young for him. Though, with a maturity level like his, maybe a college student is precisely what he needs.

Most of the tables are in use by the time we get here. 

I spot two of my kids from theory class, and head in their direction. They try to avert their gaze when they see me powering their way, but when I make a scram motion with my head, they gather their drinks and scamper in the opposite direction.

"Here, look good?" I ask Grey.

"Damn, Tim. Why you gotta be so mean to the youngun's?"

I give him an innocent look. 

"What? I didn't say a word to them. It's polite, is all, to give up your seat to your elders."

"I'm sure that's what it is. They're terrified of you, man. I'd hate to see the way you treat them in class. Why you gotta be doing so much?"

I roll my eyes at him.

"I treat them exactly as they deserve until they deserve better."

I take my coat off and hang it on the back of the chair. Grey follows suit, gazing around the bar.

"What are we doing here, man? This isn't my scene. And on—," his eyes go wide as the crowd parts. He catches a glimpse of the signboard, "—what the hell is this?  _ Glee night _ ? Come on."

His disgruntlement is clear, and he yanks his comb out of his back pocket, running it over his head self-consciously. As if the nerdom that is Glee is going to rub off on him. 

I peek at him out of the corner of my eye while scanning the busy bar for Lucy.

"You can be all big and tough in public, but don't try to pretend that you didn't watch every episode of Glee on Netflix."

He grumbles under his breath but doesn't speak up loud enough to be understood. I fail to hide my smirk. 

The show has already begun, and there's a group of girls on stage singing a mash-up of different songs and genres that somehow blend perfectly. 

I haven't seen Lucy in over a week, and the separation from her was painful.  _ Excruciating _ . Not something you would expect from a  _ fake _ relationship. 

On Thursday, she talked me into video chatting, and I watched her fall asleep through the screen. I never closed the video chat; simply propped my screen on the pillow next to me. I woke up three hours later to the sound of her telling Jackson,  _ I hope _ , that it was the best sleep she had in weeks.

It killed me to see her lying there and not be able to touch her. Even through a nine-inch iPad, I'm desperate to taste her flesh. 

I've gotten in too deep, but every time I try to back out, she sucks me in more.

She's fascinating. And intoxicating. A combination of old-world charm and a Millennial's over-enthusiasm. 

She can talk with equal vivacity about Beethoven  _ and _ Cardì B. Youngest child, raised in the suburbs of Atlanta, she grew up with one goal and one goal only, and has done nothing but work towards it every day of her life. For some reason, I always assumed she was an only child—something about her demeanor, or maybe because  _ most _ prodigies are. 

I was. My mother gave up any semblance of a healthy life when I showed a talent for music at age five. She ferried me back and forth between tutors and private teachers and performances in different states. Then different countries. I was in Calgary full time before my fifteenth birthday. 

Which makes Lucy's accomplishments even more impressive. She did it all on her own. No one handed anything to her.

"You've got that look in your eye again, man."

The waitress makes her way over, and I order two beers. They taste like swill from this place, but what do you expect when they cater to broke college kids. I never come in if I can help it. The only reason I was here last time,  _ that _ time, was because I was meeting another teacher. I was supposed to walk in, grab him, and leave again.

Not that I'm exactly complaining about the detour I took.

"What look is that?" I reply with a dry expression.

"The look that says you're thinking about that sweet young thang you had at the club a few weeks back. That's why we're here, right? Ain't no way you'd be caught dead in a place like this otherwise."

Ignoring him, I see a glimpse of fire shot hair shimmering under the overhead lights and get to my feet.

I can tell the minute she knows I'm here. 

She's holding someone's hand, Jackson , if I had to guess. If not, I'm going to break someone's nose.

She pulls from him, pushing through the crowd, and runs in my direction.

"You're here!" Lucy squeals as she throws herself into my arms. It catches me off guard, and my hands wrap around her automatically. I see Grey grinning at me from over her shoulder and shoot a scowl his way.

I turn my attention back to the creature in my arms and whisper in her ear, "Despite how hard I tried not to, I missed you, baby girl." She tightens her grip around my neck. 

"I didn't know you'd come," she says, something in her voice I can't quite place.

"You only mentioned it a dozen times this week," I say, trying to contain my pleasure at having her in my grasp. She slides down my body, and it's only then that I realize I'd lifted her off the ground. 

"Yeah, but I didn't think you were going to be back in town until Monday."

I push her hair behind her ears so that I can see her face. She's radiant tonight. Positively glowing. I suppress a moan when I graze down the rest of her body.

_ Oh God, she's trying to kill me. _

Her blouse is a purple as rich as a queen's robe, thick straps covering her shoulders. Her pants are a material I don't recognize, and she's going to have to peel herself out of them at the end of the night. She's got boots on her legs, curving over her knees.

She looks good enough to eat. I hate it.

"They finished recording early," I belatedly answer her comment.

She doesn't need to know we ended early because I insisted on it. I still have enough clout to bend people to my will, as repugnant as that makes me. I was in California recording backgrounds for some up-and-coming hip-hop artists who wanted an orchestral backup. When I told the producer I had to be back in New York for a performance Saturday night, they made it happen.

I simply didn't bother to share that the performance was  _ hers _ . 

Singing Glee covers.

Lucy leans against my chest, her arms wrapped around my throat. Her lips are close to my ear, her breath tickling the short hairs on my neck.

"You are the  _ best _ fake boyfriend,  _ Tim, _ " she whispers saucily against my ear lobe, accentuating my name, "a girl could ever ask for."

Lucy grasps my face in her hands, and I think she meant to lay a smacking kiss on my lips. Short and fast.

That changes, however, when my hands rise of their own accord, palming the small of her back and framing her face. Her head angles, her lips part, and suddenly I'm lost to the oasis that is her mouth.

_ What is wrong with me?  _

Will I ever be around this girl without having a visceral reaction to her presence?

She clings to me, as desperate to close the small space between us as I am. I want to crawl inside her and make myself a home.

The music and the ruckus fade until all I hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears, and all I smell is the flowery scent wafting from her hair. She tastes like sugar and liquor, and I want to ask her what she's been drinking, and can I drive her home. 

"Yo, Luc! Unlatch from Dr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, will ya! You're up soon."

The sound of them calling her name hits me like a bullet, and I debate about hunting the bastard down and beating him with my bow, except that she seems as reluctant to part from me as I am from her.

She breaks our kiss, but then scatters tiny pecks across my lips, nipping and tasting before she finally pulls away for real.

"Thank you for coming, Tim," she whispers just for me. Her hair is drifting in front again, and I use my fingers to push it behind her ears. She lifts on her toes, grazing her lips against mine a final time, before turning and driving back through the crowd, yelling obscenities as she leaves.

"God, damn you, Jackson ," she drawls in irritation, and I chuckle as I watch her go. Someone's gonna get his ass kicked. Better him than me.

"Well," I hear as I sit back down on the barstool, "I'll be fucking damned."

I shrug my shoulders, trying to push off his gaze, but he's cackling in amusement, smacking his hands together like he's just watched a magic trick.

"What, Grey? Let's hear it. Get it off your chest."

"Wait," he says, putting up a hand. "Give me a minute; I need to soak in what I just saw." He pulls the mug of beer to his lips, drowning half of it in one go, before turning his attention back to me.

" _ Dr _ . Tim," and I already want to punch him, "Is one hundred percent moon-eyed over some girl." Lower, as if talking to himself, he mumbles, "Just a friend, my ass."

I roll my eyes and rotate my shoulders and turn my attention toward Lucy. She's joking with Jackson , or someone who looks an awful lot like the pictures she's shown me. Relaxed and carefree, she throws her head back in amusement, then watches the chick on the stage, belting out a Beyoncé song. 

"It doesn't matter if I am or not. I'm a bastard. Lucy deserves so much better than me."

Instead of laughing, he sobers like he's seen a ghost.

"What? You're not even going to try to deny it. Last month it was all, "Nah, man. She's just a friend. Now we're just throwing around the love word willy-nilly, like?"

"Bastard, remember? And nobody mentioned love."

He shakes his head, a look of awe coating his features.

"Shit, man, it's worse than I thought."

I take a swig of my beer, barely managing to keep the grimace off my face. I'd love to take Lucy to Cleveland's. They have live music, but a wine list to rival the Popes. Despite the no smoker rule, the atmosphere always has a hazy hue, and we could sit in the back booth for hours, lost to the music, and each other.

Grey's voice breaks my thoughts.

"Yeah, but you're not such a bastard. I mean, I've known worse. My old man, for instance. Now there was a  _ real _ bastard, may he rest in hell." He makes a cross over his heart and kisses his fingers before pointing to the floor. "Besides, some women go for that sort of thing. They like to think only they can redeem him or something."

"Maybe they do, but she shouldn't. I'm fifteen years older than her. I'm grumpy, and I hate everything and everybody."

He huffs in a laugh through his nose.

"We've known each other for a long time Grey. Do you think a girl like that should be spending time with a man like me? For fuck's sake, when I met the King of Spain, I had Isobel suck my dick in his closet. I'm going to hell, man."

Grey looks at me with pity on his face, and it just makes me angry. I dig my nails into my thigh, wishing I had my cello. I need something to ease the tightening in my chest.

"Lucy? She's going to grace the stages of Broadway and London. She'll have her name in lights, and awards littering her mantelpiece. Me? I'm a washed-up has-been with a temper problem. I should end this sham now and pray she forgets about me quickly." 

The MC announces Lucy, and she climbs to the stage to wondrous applause. I stare at her, at that glorious head of copper hair glowing under the stage lights. 

"I don't know why she's still a student," I say. "Wait until you hear her sing. She belongs in the finest opera houses in Paris, not giving private lessons to high school students and undergrads."

Lucy takes the microphone. Her accent is light, just a brush on the breeze. Warmth spreads through my body as it fills and silences the crowded room. 

"This was  _ supposed _ to be a duet," she says, giving a scathing look to a person standing off to the side.

Jackson stands up, hands in the air.

"Hey, now, I can't help it if I'm the only one of us with an actual paying job, guys. I have two performances tomorrow. I have to save my voice."

Comments erupt from the crowd;  _ sit down, shut up, you're only in the chorus, Jackson  _ , and it takes a few extra seconds for the laughter to get back under control.

"Anyway. This was supposed to be a duet. However, since  _ someone  _ who shall remain  _ unnamed _ , decided to back out at the last minute, I had to change my song. 

"I'll be singing, Make You Feel My Love." Her eyes meet mine above the crowd. "You know who you are. This one's for you." 

She winks to the audience, and I bet every man in here thinks she's singing to them.

Grey breaks the spell.

"If you feel that way, why are we even here then?"

The piano accompaniment starts, and her presence blossoms on the stage. I swear her aura doubles in size, demanding the attention of everyone in the vicinity. 

"Because I figure I'm already going to hell. I might as well enjoy the ride."

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stay away.

Her voice is strong and clear, like bells ringing out over our heads. With the other performers, there was always some chatter in the background, patrons moving to and fro. When Lucy starts to sing, the building stills, holding its collective breath as she shares her gifts with the room.

Goosebumps appear up and down my arms, and my chest swells, shoulders rise, arching into the sound of her voice.

Every emotion she has flickers across her face, one bleeding seamlessly into the next. She catches my eye again, and it's as if she's reached into my chest and hollowed it out, taking my heart with her back on the stage.

The second verse ends, and people cheer and clap during the piano break. She smiles and blushes, gives one person a cute little curtsey, but never breaks her stare in my direction.

"Hell?" Grey asks, and I can’t be bothered to look in his direction. "She looks more like heaven to me, man."

The song ends, and the audience explodes into noise, the hounds baying at their masters' feet. Grey stands, whistling out his appreciation. Before she skitters off the stage, though, Lucy brings her fingers to her lips and blows me a silent kiss.


	8. The cello

Chapter Eight

Lucy

  
  


_ December  _

It’s late. Like  _ really _ late.

I haven’t seen another soul for hours, but I have a graded performance in my German diction class on Monday, and I’m still struggling with the female part of Arabella.

When I had to pick a focus, Classical verses Modern/Broadway, I picked Classical without a second’s hesitation. At least once a week since then, I wonder what in the hell I was thinking.

The door to my practice space creaks open, and I finish my verse before hitting the button on my remote to silence the instrumental background spewing from my speakers.

Beth, in her last year of the masters’ program, leans against the doorway.

“Hey, Beth. What are you still doing here? I haven’t seen anyone else for ages.”

“Same thing you are probably, trying to grasp that stupid song Ms. Sullivan assigned.”

_ Stupid _ ? Arabella is a  _ classic _ opera. When Renee Fleming sings it, hearts break all over the world.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

I need to get back to work. I grimace, masquerading as a smile, in her direction, hoping she’ll take the hint.

She doesn’t

“You waiting on Dr. Dreary?”

It takes me a minute to realize who she’s talking about. Tim is so different than what I  originally  thought when I walked into his office that first day. It leads credence to the phrase appearances can be deceiving.

“Tim? He’s still here?”

“Yeah, I mean, last time I checked. Tony brought me dinner, and he said he heard him wallowing in misery on his cello when he cut through the strings ward. That was less than an hour ago.”

_ He’s playing? _

I’ve listened to every recording of him I could get my hands on. I watched hours and hours of his performances on YouTube. But, outside that night at the blues club, I’ve yet to hear him play up close and personal. Blues, in a bar, is not the sort of performance I’m desperate for.

“I gotta go,” I snap out, throwing my stuff into my bag and making a quick sweep of the room.

She looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, but I give her a tiny push to get her out of my doorway and hit the lights on my way out. Locking the door, I take off at a trot down the hall, leaving a bewildered Beth standing in my wake.

  
  


*****

I hear him before I find him. The rooms are semi-soundproof. They have to be with this many musicians jammed in such a tight area. Which means he must have his door open. I don't recognize the piece, but it's dark and powerful, and I feel it in my gut.

He doesn't have a piano accompaniment; it's just him and his bow, the sound echoing off the corners of the room.

I close my eyes and slow to a standstill outside the door, letting the song's emotion tell me its story. As the vibrato expands, I creep inside.

My first thought is, he's been at this a while.

His eyes are closed, body moving, flowing in rhythm with his bow. He's barefoot, his cello centered between his knees. His hair is in disarray, and sweat is coating his brow. His shirt is half undone, the buttons loose and the hem pulled from his jeans.

He looks tormented.

I can't think of a single thing in my life sexier than he is right now.

The door makes a sound as I latch it behind me, but he either doesn't hear it or doesn't care. He never pauses as he draws the bow across the strings.

I don't want to disturb him, and in some faraway corner of my mind, I'm horrified at how I'm invading his privacy. But I can't stop walking towards him. The sight of him pouring his soul into his instrument draws me to him like a moth to the flame.

But unlike a moth, I  _ want _ to be burned.

His bowing slows; the song is pulling to a close. His fingers on the strings tremble with their intensity and my body pulses with need.

I  _ need _ to know what his calloused fingertips feel like sliding across my body.

As the final note vibrates around us, he opens his eyes, and the intensity in his stare sends a tingle up my spine. His arms flag, knees droop to the side, and I slip in next to his cello.

_ It's where I belong. In Tim's arms, next to his heart. _

He loosens his hold on the cello, letting his shoulder support the neck of the instrument. He transfers his bow to the other hand, wrapping his free arm around my waist.

I lean into him, my body soaking in his heat. He's radiating power and endurance, sweat coating his skin. I push my fingers into his hair, smoothing the damp strands away from his face.

When I lower my face to his, my heart is pounding in my chest; nervousness and adrenaline coursing through my veins—our noses touch, soft and hesitant. I keep my lips closed, gentle against his own. I kiss him once, twice, and when I pull away the third time, his lips chase after mine. 

He makes a sound deep in his throat. Regret, or distress. His grip tightens on my waist, fingers digging into my hip. It breaks something deep inside of me. I  _ never _ want to hear him make that sound when it's within my power to prevent it.

He lets his bow fall to the ground with a clatter, lowering the cello with a little more care. His freed hand makes its way up my back, cradling my head in his palm.

I dip my face a second time, and he angles to meet me halfway, lips parted and tongue seeking entrance to mine. He pulls my bottom lip between his, and my hands find their way to his face, enjoying the feel of his week-old stubble against my palms.

He's quietly consuming me, hands muscular and rough against my back. His tongue slides against my lips, and it's  _ me _ chasing  _ him _ now, silently begging for more.

His hand slips into my shirt, fingers splayed across my lower back, and I melt into his caress, my skin tightening and beading under his touch.

My chest is heaving when our lips part, and I rest my forehead against his cheek. I'm too blissed out to bear to be parted from him, even the distance of me standing up.

He rubs his cheek against my face, whispering,  _ "I do not deserve this," _ so quiet, I'm sure it wasn't meant to be heard.

But I do hear, and the anguish in his voice breaks against my soul.

The man  _ I _ know deserves everything and more.

"What happened, Tim? Why did you quit?"

The question startles me more than it does him. It's not my place. But every time I see the fervor that coats his face when he has an instrument in his hands, I wonder more and more.

What  _ happened _ to make him give  _ that _ up?

I never could.

I stand when he loosens his hold on my neck, only to wrap them around my belly. I run my fingers through his hair, letting him pull solace from my comfort.

"You've heard the rumors. Surely that's enough information for you."

His voice is rough and bleak.  _ Hard _ . Not the man I've spent so much time within the last few months.

I  _ have _ heard the rumors. In the middle of a world tour, playing stadiums and concert halls alike, he quit. Canceled his performances, refunded his tickets, and announced his employment as the resident cellist at Calgary. They said he had a nervous breakdown. That he couldn't handle the pressure. I don't believe it for an instant. The man  _ I  _ know, the one before me, could juggle universes barehanded.

"I have. Now I want the truth."

He tightens his grip on my waist.

"Please."

He shrugs his shoulders against my stomach. Is he agreeing? Or trying to push his demons off his back?

I look down at him, and his eyes are glazed and far away, seeing something only he is privy to.

"I was the darling of the classical world, beyond that even. I made cello cool. How often does a cello CD make the billboards lists?"

"I know," I say, still running my fingers through his hair. "I've seen your music videos."

He huffs out a laugh.

"At the height of it all, my mom got sick. She hid it from me until it was too late. She thought she was protecting me from the burden of caring for her. I was an unstoppable force, and she didn't want to be the person who got in my way.

"I didn't find out until the hospital called; she'd collapsed in a store. Stage four liver cancer. Ironic; she hated alcohol, and I drank like a fish."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, not wanting to stop his story but wanting to offer him support.

"They said she had a few months, a year if she was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on what killed her first, the treatment, or the disease. Calgary had been trying to get me to come home and guest lecture. You know I studied here?"

I nod that yes; I know everything the internet can tell me about you. Plus, some things the internet can't.

"I agreed to a year's contract with the school and bought a condo a few blocks away from the brownstone my mother lived in. I thought I would take a year off, or however long it took to care for my mother until the end.

"The woman—," he pauses, and I sense we're getting to the crux of the matter—the bitch who broke his heart. If I ever meet her, I'm going to slap her across the face. I'm from the South, it's an art form we're taught early.

"The woman I'd been living with disagreed with my choice. I'd been with Isobel for years. She traveled the world with me. Hung on my arm, spent my money. She left me two months after I came home. She told me she wasn't made to be a teacher's wife. My mother died a few weeks later.

"Let's say I became— _ dis-enlightened _ —with the whole thing. Fame, money, power. What was the point?

"Within days of my mother's passing, all the sycophants who'd abandoned me when I stepped out of the spotlight were back, knocking on my door and wanting to know when the partying would start again.

"I decided then and there that I would never go back to that lifestyle. I made my position with Calgary permanent, sold my mother's brownstone, and have been teaching ever since."

I get that. I do. My heart breaks at the despair Tim must have felt. He lost everything, all in one fell swoop.

But  _ still _ .

"Your music? You  _ love _ it. It—every time I watch you play—I feel like it bares your soul to me. I don't know how you could give it up."

With him sitting, his head rests at my shoulders. He looks up at me, fingers splayed against my hip, and I let my shoulders fall, grazing my lips against his. I don't stay that way for long, but his eyes were eating into my heart.

"I didn't give it up. I still play. I play with the band. I play with ensembles. Hell, I'm even in the occasional movie orchestra."

He squeezes me, and I lower myself onto his leg. Now that we're sitting face to face, the intimacy is almost unbearable. My forearms rest on his shoulders, fingers still playing with his hair. I'm desperate to kiss him again.

"Do you miss it?"

He starts to shrug and shroud himself in the armor of indifference that's protected him for so long, but it's half-hearted at best.

"Yes," he says, looking me in the eye. "Every day."

He pushes my hair behind my ears.

"You are so beautiful," he says. "When I look at you, it doesn't hurt so much anymore."


	9. Want to Burn

Tim

She kisses me again like she can cure all the pain in my world with the simple act of pressing her lips against mine. 

Maybe she can?

Her mouth is sweet and innocent, and I'm disgusted with the way I lean into her touch. I pull her to me,  _ into _ me, when I should be putting as much space between us as possible.

She's on my lap, her legs straddling my thighs. My dick is straining against my pants. Every squirm or breath that causes her to glance across it sends agony shooting through my spine.

I need to end this. 

I  _ will _ end this.

_ Soon. _

She tastes like fruit, and I know it's from the strawberry Chapstick she keeps buried in her pocket. The orange tea she drinks to soothe her throat. The lavender body butter she wears to help calm her nerves.

She's  _ so _ responsive, moaning, and sighing into my mouth. It's fucking addicting. I want nothing more than to lay her on the floor of my practice space and cover the tiles with her juices. 

I bet she'd be ripe as a fresh peach.

I drag my fingers over her throat, savoring the tortuous wiggle that causes her hips to rub across my dick, and use my thumb to point her chin up, trailing kisses down her neck.

I need to stop this.

"It's late, Lucy. Let me take you home."

She walks to and from campus most days, and there's no way in hell I'm letting her walk in the dark at almost midnight.

I'll drive her to her apartment, then forget any of this ever happened. 

"Yes, please," she pants, "So long as I'm going home with you."

I freeze in my ministrations on her throat, rubbing against her like a cat as I bring our faces level.

"That's not a good idea, baby girl."

It's a horrible, terrifying,  _ deliciously _ bad idea.  _ Her _ ? In  _ my _ house? I could lock the door, close the curtains, and lose myself in her forever. 

"Please?" She asks, and there's so much  _ hope _ in her voice. That Southern twang lilts off her tongue, and the tone of her begging worms its way into my ears. I can't stop myself and lick a strip of her skin from her chin to her earlobe, pulling it gently between my teeth. 

Her head falls gracefully backward, opening herself up to me, like an offering to Satan.

"Please?" She asks again, the word tight and achy between her lips.

"Lucy," I say, rough against her ear, "If I take you home with me, if I  _ let _ this start, there's no guarantee I'm going to be able to stop again. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

_ I'm a bad man. I'm no good for you, and you should escape while you have the chance.  _

I could hurt you, in  _ oh _ so many ways. 

She cups my face in her palms, looking me in the eye.

"I want to burn."

*****

She holds my hand as I tidy up my room. She holds my hand as we walk to my parking space. She holds my hand in the car. She's silent on the short drive to my condo, smiling a sweet little smile to herself. 

Her eyes sparkle in the dim light of the parking garage as I pull her to a stop next to me.

"This is a bad idea," I whisper. 

The look of open trust on her face steals the breath from my lungs, and my lips are against hers when she mumbles. 

"I'll not force myself upon you, Tim. If you want me to leave, I will."

Her breath is hot against my face, and I change course from her mouth, running my lips over her ear.

"I am going to  _ ruin _ you."

Instead of running away in fright, she smiles beatifically at me. 

"Looking forward to it, sir."

The walk to my top floor condo takes ages; yet happens in the blink of an eye.

It's not much, not compared to some. But it's spacious and open, and filled with top-to-bottom glass. There's a baby grand in the middle of the open living space, a couch, and a collection of instruments against a wall. 

I slip my coat from my shoulders and hang it on the coat rack by the door. I flick on the light over the sink, hit the button to open the curtains and let the views of New York at night flood into my apartment. The surround sound in the condo is connected to the same panel, and I hit another button so instrumental music, robust and full, spills quietly into the apartment.

She shakes off her jacket, draping it across the back of the couch.

Her eyes go wide at the sight of the curtains parting, and I stand back and enjoy the pleasure on her face. She surprises me though and heads to the row of strings instead of the New York skyline's views. She runs her fingers over the instruments, a look of reverence coating her features. A guitar, a bass, three cellos, two traditional and an electric, and a double bass at the end.

"Will you play for me tonight?"

"Of course. If you want."

I finally realize I'd do anything she asks me to.

There's still time to stop this. I can put Lucy in a cab and make her realize—

_ Realize what?  _

I've come too far to stop now. It's either have her and burn with it. Or don't, and die from the knowledge that heaven was within my grasp, and I let it fall away. 

I watch as she toes her shoes off and lines them up against the couch. Her shirt goes next, dropping to the floor. My gaze follows as she unsnaps her jeans, lowers the zipper, then shimmies them down her thighs. 

The heat starts in my gut, simmering its way up until I'm positive fire flares behind my eyes. 

The moonlight shimmers off her pale body, freckles twinkling in the night like stars. 

_ Pure _ . 

She looks so fucking pure, and I am the vilest man on the planet. 

Her bra hits the floor with a flick of her wrist, and I gape as she gathers her courage and steps out of her panties, letting them add to the pile of her clothing. 

My fingers are digging into the counter so hard I'm surprised the marble doesn't crack under strain. 

She runs her hands over her body, cupping her breasts, fingers trailing her ribcage, palms open wide against her hips. I want to follow the trail with my tongue.

"Please," she begs again, and I feel my willpower crumble around me. She licks her lips, nervous tension radiating from her, and I can't imagine the courage this has taken. To bare herself,  _ here _ , when I've done nothing but try to push her away? 

I don't deserve a creature this divine. 

I go to her, my steps the length of two normal men, and have her in my arms before my heart can burst from my chest.

One hand at the back of her neck, my fingers slide through the silky strands of her firecracker hair, my other hand trails down the side of her body. Her skin is like satin, smooth, and tender under my rough hand.

It would be so easy to bruise her. I have to resist the urge to do so, to brand her with my mark. She's so tiny, so delicate under my touch. I tower over her, engulfing her with my frame, and the knowledge that I could bend her to my will is heady. 

My hand finds her breast, and she arches into my touch, pushing and urging me with her sounds and body. The curve of her breast sits heavy in my hand, and I rub my thumb over her nipple, awash in power as it puckers and hardens under my direction.

She makes a sound of protest when I tear my lips from hers—but there's so much of her to taste. I won't be satisfied until I've had my mouth on every inch of her.

"I am going to consume you," I whisper against her throat.

" _ Please _ ," she whines.

My new favorite word.

Her hands rise to my neck and shoulders, kneading the skin under her fingers. A gentle counterpoint to the desperation quickening my own motions

I pull her perfect pink nipple between my lips, rolling it with my tongue as she arches deeper into my mouth.

My hands trail down her back, and her ass curves into my palms as if I molded it myself. Lush and full. I work the supple flesh between my fingers. She's so small; I could wrap my arms around her twice.

Yet still, she fits against me perfectly.

I slip my fingers between her seam, and she's already so wet. Her body reacts as if lightning arcs through her, and she bows into my touch, knees trembling underneath her.

"I need— _ I need _ —" 

But she doesn't say more than that. Her voice is high and tight. She's begging, pleading, but for what, I don't know.

Instead, her grip tightens in my hair, dragging my lips back to hers. I allow it, if only so that I can nose my way up her cheekbones, bringing my lips to the cusp of her ear.

"What do you need, baby girl? Tell me what you need." 

She's pressed against me, my hand running the length of her spine while my fingers explore her folds. I spread her slick across my digits, then bring them to my mouth for a taste.

_ Exquisite _ .

"You, Tim. Just you."

Sweeter words were never spoken.

I gather her in my arms, lifting her from the ground. She weighs nothing. My cello has more heft than her. Lucy's legs wrap around my waist, so reminiscent of our first kiss that it tugs a small smile from my lips.

Until I feel her naked under my hands, and the smile melts from my face.

I deposit her on the piano, positioning her on the closed lid. She hisses as the cool wood comes in contact with her heated flesh and her fingers, still caressing my head, dig into my scalp as she arches against me. 

A moan bleeds into my mouth. At first, high as a whine, it deepens as her chest expands, and the wood warms to her searing blood.

I pull myself from her mouth, finally licking the trail down her body I've been dreaming about for months. Using my hands, I pull her roughly to the edge of the piano, spreading her knees as I do so. Her arms slip to her sides to support her, then she lowers to her elbows, watching me down the line of her body.

Her bronze skin glows in the pale light streaming in from the windows, the contrast stark from the rich darkness of the piano. 

I plunge my tongue into Lucy's core, desperate to taste her. The flavor of her fills my nose and coats my lips.

"I'm going to eat you from the inside out," I say, eyes flicked up to her to watch her reaction.

I'm ravenous, and the only way to sate my hunger is to feast on Lucy's flesh. My fingers dig into the supple meat of her thighs, spreading her wide and lifting her from the surface. She gasps at the motion, body dropping, and arching against the wood. She's beautiful and earthy, a scattering of golden curls covering her mound.

I blow on her entrance, and she flexes against my hold, searching out substance instead of air.

"Touch me," she pants. "Fuck me. Make love to me, Tim."

Is that what this is? It's been so long since I've made love to another human being.

My lips encircle  _ her _ lips, parting them with my tongue. Lucy releases a groan I feel at the base of my dick, making it twitch and fatten to the point of pain.

I start off slow, dainty cat-like licks across her mound. She's so reactive, twitching under my hands and mouth. I wonder if I could bring her to fruition from the gentle caresses alone? 

I use my tongue to explore her folds, dipping inside and swirling around her hood. It's not enough, though, and soon my tongue searches out new treasures. I suck at her creases, spreading her slick with my chin. I lick over the mass and swell of her ass, savoring the sight of how she curves and opens in front of me.

When I lick a stripe from ass to clit, she arches so deep her back leaves the wood. Then she tries to fuck my face.

"Not yet, baby girl."

Her sounds take on a desperate quality.

Where my tongue leads, my fingers follow, hunting for her sweet spots. I press my finger into her cunt, and it's tight. So very tight. I'm almost afraid I'm hurting her until she moans out, "More," from the top of the piano. 

When I join a second finger with the first, she bucks into my touch, and my eyes roll into my head at how  _ very _ responsive she is. Every mans' fantasy is spread out on top of my piano, and she's begging for more, harder, faster.

Pulling her, so her ass is dangling off the edge, I wrap my arms under her thighs and spread her from the top, pulling back her hood for closer examination. I run my nose up her seam, hoping to brand her scent into my memory, and then I get to work.

No longer soft and playful, I flick my tongue against her slit, using my hands to spread her as wide as I possibly can. 

She's writhing on the piano top, her plea's gaining in strength.

My baser instincts take over.

I know she's close. She's arching, squirming, reaching for that last little bit that will send her over the edge. I pull my mouth away from her clit, looking up the line of her body. 

"Look at me, Lucy," I demand, and her eyes drift open, as if through a dense fog. "I'm going to bite you," I tell her, and her eyes grow wide in shock. "I'm going to bite you because when I taste you again tomorrow, I want proof that I've been here before. That it wasn't all a dream. 

"Give me your permission." She nods her head emphatically, up and down, then side to side, as if she doesn't know which way is up. 

"Not good enough, baby girl. I need to hear you say the words."

I blow on her sensitive flesh, and she strains against my hold. 

"Please," she moans, and I lower my lips to her body. "God, Tim,  _ please _ ."

I latch onto her nub, that glorious bundle of nerves that turns mortal women into goddesses and suck it into my mouth, flicking and sucking in rapid succession. Unwrapping my arms from her legs, I bring one to her thigh again, spreading her up and out, so her ass is on display. 

Sound explodes from her, bouncing off the apartment's acoustics, and it's the sweetest music I've ever made. As spasms consume her body, I thrust my fingers into her core and latch my mouth onto the curve from pussy to thigh. Digging my teeth in until she cries out again, I suck her marrow into my mouth.

When she wears her panties tomorrow, the lace will rub against my teeth.

After I'm sure my mark will last, I swipe my tongue to seal my brand to her skin. Then I trail my tongue through her curls, tasting and savoring until she's boneless and spent beneath me.

It's been only one bite, one taste, and I'm already addicted. How I'm supposed to give this up when the time comes, I have no idea.


	10. I don't

Tim

She's limp, spread across the piano lid like liquid encased in skin. Her knees are tucked up to her chest, and I can't tell if her shivers are from aftershocks or because her blood is cooling. 

With an arm under her knees and an arm under her shoulders, I scoop her from the lid, carrying her bridal style into my bedroom. I try to ignore the symbolism. 

With one knee on the edge, I yank on my bedspread then gently place her in the middle of the mattress. She looks exquisite; her hair splayed out around her, like a spill of copper into a glass of warm milk. 

I stand there, at the edge of my bed, staring at the creature that lays inside it. If someone made me pick,  _ her _ , or my cello, at  _ right _ this moment, I couldn't guarantee the cello would win. 

Lucy stretches, toes pointing and arms over her head, before she settles herself against the pillows. 

"Are you going to join me in here? Or are you simply going to stand off to the side all night and watch?"

If only she knew how much I wanted to join her.

She's grinning ear to ear like she's in on the world's biggest secret. I can't deny the image of her pleasuring herself in the middle of my bed isn't a heady picture, and I smile in return.

She runs her fingers lightly over her torso, stopping every few moments to give her breasts a squeeze.

_ This woman's trying to kill me.  _

"I don't think that's a good idea, baby girl," I say, for the thousandth time tonight. 

She tusks like I've failed a test.

"Tim," she pouts, and the sound goes straight to my dick.

"I don't have any condoms, Lucy," I say, and it causes me physical pain to admit it. "I haven't been with a woman for quite a while." 

"Oh," she says, and that knuckle pops between her teeth. "I don't have any, either."

_ That _ is the end of that.

She rallies, though. Lucy is nothing if  _ not _ goal orientated.

"It's been a long time for me too, Tim. But I know I'm clean. We have to get tested during our yearly physical. It's part of my school-funded insurance."

I close my eyes and send a little prayer up to heaven. Or to Satan, most likely, because he and I are close personal friends after tonight. 

Don't say it, baby girl.  _ Please _ don't say it.

"But unless you  _ have to  _ wear a condom, I don't need you to. I have my birth control in my bag. I can show you if you want."

The thought of her pregnant with my child is like a punch in the gut, and I feel it roiling in my belly. A desire I've never known before flares to life, famished and insatiable. 

"Please come to bed, Tim."

She sounds so pleading and so fucking  _ innocent _ . My hands are on the buttons of my shirt before I've made the conscious decision to do so.

When I'm finally stripped of my clothes, I walk to the bedside table, pulling out the lubricant I keep in the top drawer.

Not that I need it,  _ you bastard _ . Lucy is young and ripe. I can see her wetness from here. I watch her, watching me, as I pour a dollop into my palm and stroke it up and down my cock. 

I crawl onto the bed, and she immediately parts her legs for me. But that's not what I have in mind for tonight. Don't get me wrong. I plan on having her writhing underneath me sooner rather than later. But the truth of the matter is I don't think I can trust myself tonight.

I gather her in my arms, settling her against me chest to chest. I lower her onto my thighs and plunge in to enjoy her mouth. My legs stretch out on the mattress, and I take her knees and wrap them around me. Her clit, slick as a baby seal, is rubbing against my straining cock. 

To have her this close to me, naked and wanting seems like a sin. I drop my mouth to her chest, nibbling my way to her breasts.

"I've never done this before," she says, and it takes a minute for her words to worm their way into my brain. I freeze with her in my arms, searching out her face.

"Excuse me?" I growl, and uncontrollable giggles peel from her lips as what she's said dawns on her face.

"No, silly," she chuckles, reaching up to cup my face. "Yes, of course, I've had sex. I've just never done  _ this _ before," and she lightly caresses my forehead with her fingers.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. 

"I've never  _ made love _ . With a man. Someone who cared about my pleasure as much as he did his."

"Oh,  _ baby girl _ ," I growl, desire washing over me anew. "The things I could show you."

"Well," she says, a teasing lilt to her voice. "You are an excellent teacher."

I let my hands trail down her body to lift her and bring her home to me, but she stops me with a hand on my chest.

"Wouldn't you rather have me lying down?" She asks me timidly. 

"No," I reply, fervor in my voice. "I want you as close to me as I can get you. I want to crawl inside your body and never come out again."

A rose-red blush creeps up her already flushed skin.

"I just meant I've never had sex in this position. I don't want to disappoint you."

I kiss her, because in what world could  _ she _ ever disappoint  _ me _ ?

"Lucy," I say, and look into her eyes. If she can be honest, I can be too. "The truth of the matter is, I don't trust myself with you underneath me. I don't want to hurt you accidentally. I wasn't lying when I said it'd been a  _ very _ long time for me."

"Tim," she says, and the faith in her voice is overwhelming. "You would never hurt me."

Not on purpose.

With one hand on her hip and one hand on her ass, I lift her, aligning myself with her entrance. She wraps her legs tighter around my waist and allows me to control her slow descent down my body.

She feels exquisite.  _ Breathtaking _ . It takes all my self-control not to pin her to me and pound myself inside her. 

She lets out a tiny gasp as I fill her and stretch her. It only fans my flame. We sit there a moment, letting our bodies adjust—pelvis to pelvis, heart to heart.

I know I can't keep her. I'm not so depraved as to think that I could keep a creature as radiant as her by my side for the rest of my life. But no matter what happens tomorrow, I want her to remember that I alone made her body ache and her soul blaze like the sun.

I can't sit still for long. I have to feel Lucy move above me. I flex my muscles, my hips nudging forward, and a slow smile spreads over her face. Lucy leans back, a hand behind her, supporting her on the mattress. It pushes her breasts up and out, and I bring my lips to her skin, licking the sweat from her pores and sucking a nipple between my teeth.

She moves, and sensation ripples out from the base of my spine. Her beautiful cunt grips me like a vice, and I feel every ridge and valley of her center as she slowly rocks her hips. 

There's no shame in Lucy, no self-consciousness. She throws her head back, exposing the delicate skin of her throat to me, and I follow the motion with my mouth, trailing lips and teeth and tongue wherever I can reach.

I can't get enough of her. There's too much to taste, too much to watch. Her body curves and rolls against me, like the waves of the ocean crashing against a ship. Her fingers entwine in my hair, and as I swaddle my arms around her, I realize I was right. I could wrap around her twice. 

She's mine. 

Mine to shelter, to protect. 

Mine to worship. 

Mine to make come in as many ways as I can imagine.

I'm a  _ very _ creative person.

She's chanting, quiet but precise; "Yes. Yes. Yes."

With a hand splayed across her ass, I palm her breasts. My fingers trail to her seam then back again, desperate to feel her fall apart around me. 

When I look between us, the sight of my cock driving in and out of her opening threatens to undo me. My muscles tense and harden, and I bring her face to mine, thrusting my tongue to tangle with hers. Lucy drapes herself across me, nails digging in and slipping across my sweat-drenched skin as she pulls me as tight as she can. 

Our heels dig into the mattress, languid motions becoming sharp and fierce.

I'm in her, and on her, breathing her oxygen and drinking her sweat, and still, I'm desperate to get closer. I want to be  _ inside _ her, when we slip our skin and join as one.

My skin tingles, my muscles burn, and as the explosion bursts from the base of my spine, Lucy cries out in my arms, arching against me.

I stop breathing, my heart stops beating, and I think I die for a moment, with her in my arms, before sensation comes rushing back. And then I do pin her to me, thrusting as fast and hard as our position will allow me.

She giggles and whimpers at the same time, like her body, can't settle on an emotion. I've never heard a sound so beautiful.

I don't last long. I'm spent and drained, having poured myself into Lucy. She hugs me to her, and I run my hands up and down her spine, rubbing my face against hers like a cat. 

"Thank you," she whispers, voice hoarse against my ear.

_ I love you; _ I want to tell her back.

I don't.


	11. The Truth

Tim

I know it's her the minute I hear the doorbell. How, do you ask? Because I told the doorman if he let my black-haired goddess into the building, I'd personally break his fingers.

So, of course, Lucy is outside my door less than three hours later.

"Tim, I know you're here. Mr. Andrews from downstairs let me in. Are you sick? What's going on?"

She knocks on my door, while speaking through the buzzer. 

I lay my cello on the ground and pad barefoot over to the door, debating the wisdom of doing this now.

I won't have to tell her at school, which is the main reason I called out sick today—because I'm a fucking coward. However, I don't think doing it in my living room is any better.

I spent an hour today merely staring at the piano, wondering if I sniffed it, would it still smell like her? If I licked it, would I be able to taste the sweat from her skin?

Less than a week. Five days. That’s all the time I got to revel in the feel of her arms around me before life as I knew it came tumbling down around me.

My stomach roils, and bile burns at the back of my throat. Maybe I am sick after all.

After another round of banging, I pull open the door.

"Lucy, come on in." I try to sound polite. I fail.

She's staring at me like she's trying to figure out a puzzle. I have to force my shoulders back, strengthen my spine. After all, I’m the unfeeling bastard of this duo. Better if I look the part.

I shut the door behind her, doing my best to ignore her presence. I sense her take her coat off, line her shoes up by the door, then I turn from her entirely and move to my cello, lifting it from the floor and placing it in its stand.

"You didn't come to school today. You didn't call me back or answer my texts. I was worried about you."

I bring my hands up to my head, scrubbing them roughly through my hair.

This is what's best. It's the best thing I can do for her.

_ Why, then, does it hurt so bad?  _

_ " _ I got an email last night. It threw me off my game."

"Ahhh, poor, Tim. Tell me about it." Her tone is half-amused, half-concerned. As if I’m simply moody and overreacting. 

She thinks she knows me so well.

She tries to close the distance between us, hands reaching for my face, but I grab her wrists in my hands and bring them down between us.

"Caleb quit. No notice, of course. Took a job in California."

"Oh," is all she says, heavy on a puff of air.

I step back away from her, putting some much-needed space between us.

"I uh—." My voice breaks, and I clear the emotion from it roughly. 

I want to punch something, to break something. My muscles scream with the anxiety coursing through my veins. I run my hands through my hair again, pulling at the strands this time.

"I know we were only, um, spending time together to keep that asshole away from you. Motherfucker didn't even have the decency to finish out the semester.  _ God _ , I  _ hate _ him.”

If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I don’t know if I hate him more because of it, or because without him, I’d had never had what little time with Lucy I did. 

“Anyway, it's good news for you. You're free." I try to force a smile into my voice. "Since you don't need me anymore, I guess this is goodbye."

She makes a sound, and I finally turn to face her. Her eyes are pools of liquid, tears slowly dripping down her face.

I go to her then, drawn like a magnet. I push her hair behind her ears, using my thumbs to wipe away the moisture from her eyes. I need to feel her against me, so I dip my head and rub the scruff of my cheek against the satin of her smooth one.

"Baby girl, please don't cry. I can't bear to see you cry. This is a good thing. You're free of him. Free of me."

My voice is soft, tender in a way that only happens for her.

"But," she sniffles, and I feel it deep in my gut, "I don't want to be free of you. I know you weren't, really, my boyfriend." She makes a sound deep in her throat. "God, what a stupid word that is." 

Her sniffles pick up force. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to lick the tears from her face, like a cat would its mate. "I know my love isn't like the love you had before. But it felt so real to me."

Isobel? Is she referring to fucking  _ Isobel _ ? Compared to Lucy’s warmth and loving smile, my time with Isobel is more like a bad highlight reel of somebody else’s life. When I’m in Lucy’s arms, I feel like heaven and hell and everything in between.

Her crying starts in earnest, and it breaks something inside me to see her this way. I pick her up, and her legs wrap around me automatically. I place her on the piano, so different from the last time we were in this position. We're face to face now, and I kiss her with everything I possess.

Everything I am is hers, I try to tell her, even if that amounts to nothing.

I cup her face in my palms, holding back all that glorious hair from blocking my view of her.

I overheard a teacher once say when he first met Lucy; he thought her coloring would stop her from getting jobs. Then he heard her sing. Now he can close his eyes and picture her on any stage in the world.

"Oh, baby girl. It is real. It's so real it hurts. But you are the sun and the stars, and I am  _ not _ worthy of cleaning your floors, let alone of being your lover."

"How can you say that?" She asks me, sincerity lacing her voice. When she looks me in the eye, adoration blooms in my belly. 

"You are perfect, Tim. Perfect.

"I'm an asshole," I reply, and shocked laughter bubbles from her surface and crashes over me in waves. 

She shrugs, and I wonder if that’s a habit she’s picked up from me?

"I'm nice enough for the both of us," she replies. At least she doesn’t try to deny it.

Lucy's hands have left my shoulders to find the hem of my shirt. Her hands slip underneath, and a shudder runs the length of my spine as her tiny fingers flatten against my back.

She tilts her head, laying tiny kisses up and down my throat. Starting from my ear, she nibbles down to my neckline, only to start the path again. My fingers tighten where they’re resting on her thighs.

"I warned you once before, baby girl. Once I start this, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. You’d be better off leaving and never looking back."

She ignores me, continuing her trail from earlobe to collarbone.

"Lucy," I say, trying to put a little more force into my voice. "I'm not a very nice man."

She shrugs her shoulders again. Like it means nothing to her. One hand has found its way into the waistband of my jeans, creepy crawling its way onto my ass. The other is digging hot rivers of yearning up and down my back with her nails.

"You're nice to me," she says against my Adam's apple.

“You may be the only person in the world I honestly like,” I mumble against her hair.

“Wait till I tell Grey. You’re going to break his heart.” 

I huff out a laugh.

“This isn’t very fair,” I grump out, trying to retain my concentration. She’s brought her teeth into the game, and she’s lightly scrapping them up and down my collar bone.

“I’m a very goal orientated person, Tim. I thought you knew that by now.”

She doesn’t take her lips from my skin when she talks, and goosebumps break out over my body. I feel her smile against my breastbone, and I tilt my head to the side to give her more access.

“Do you love me?” She asks, and I know she can feel the way my heart speeds up at the question. She pauses against me, breath held in anticipation.

I give her hair a tug, and she resumes her sucking on my neck.

“The issue here isn’t how much I love you. The issue is that—.”

She takes my bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it until it’s just this side of painful. My moan is guttural in response. The pop of its freedom is audible in the room.

She looks me in the eye, all trace of playfulness gone.

“ _ Do. You. Love. Me?” _

“Yes,” I say simply, and her smile is wider than the New York Skyline.

"Then take me to bed," she says, looking me in the eye.

Will there ever come a time when I can tell her no?

I gather her in my arms, savoring the way she folds herself around me, and walk into my bedroom. 


	12. The End

Chapter Twelve

Lucy

This time when he lowers me to the mattress, I make sure he comes with me. My arms are locked around his chest, pulling at his shirt, and my lips tangled up with his. He's on his knees between my thighs, supporting himself one-handed. The other cradles my face, thumb caressing my throat.

His mouth slides from mine, trailing kisses down my jaw, and I  _ feel _ , more than hear him whisper, "Never see you cry again."

My heart lurches in my chest, but his lips quickly soothe the pain away.

I want to put both hands in the air, screaming 'YES,' at the top of my lungs. I want to abandon Tim on this bed to do a happy dance in celebration. I  _ want _ to call my momma and tell her that I have landed a king among men.

Instead, I wrap my legs around his waist, running my palms up and down his spine. I need to feel him underneath my hands.

He scared me so very badly.

For a minute there, I honestly thought I'd lost him.

He rises to his knees, reaching over his shoulders and pulling his shirt off over his head. He drops it to the floor, not paying any attention to its location. Today's reads, 'Cellist, because Violinists need hero's too.'

I push back with my hands, scooting to a sitting position, and follow his action, dropping my shirt to the carpet. I reach for his pants, popping the button and lowering his zipper. I've never been a fan of men's underwear before, but maybe that's because I'd never seen Tim wear them.

Either way, it all needs to go. I place my hands in his undies at his hips and slide my palms downward as I shove his bottoms down his legs. I don't get very far, seeing as how he's standing on his knees, but the coarseness of his body hair sends tingles up from my fingertips.

He springs free as soon as I have his pants low enough, and I admire the length of steel jutting up from between his legs. It might be more impressive today than the last time I saw it, maybe because I have more of my wits this encounter. 

I give up on his pants and take him in my hand. Thick and hard, he's coated in the finest velvet. His balls are large and tight against his body, and I wonder if I can put them both in my mouth.

I lean forward, intending to try to do just that, but Tim stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"What do you think you're doing, baby girl?"

"I want to feel you in my mouth," I reply and am only mildly embarrassed at the timid and breathy way it comes out.

"Oh, no, baby girl. Not right now."

"Why not?" I ask, worry coating my voice.

"Because, the first time I come tonight, I want to be so deep inside you, you still feel me tomorrow."

His voice is deep and gravelly, masculine possession all wrapped in Tim's honeyed tone. It pulls things tight inside me.

"But you're supposed to be a good teacher," I say, and his chin drops to his chest. He's praying again, I think. Funny, for a man who doesn't believe in God, he sure does talk to him a lot.

"You're killing me, Lucy, killing me. Later, if you want. After I've had my way with you."

"Promise?" I ask, and his responding chuckle is low and dark, filled with hidden possibilities.

"Promise," he says, with a smile I can't quite distinguish. 

When he licks his lips, it dawns on me. 

He looks hungry.

I reach around me to unhook my bra, but he smacks my hands away, giving me a withering look.

"Mine," he says.

He crawls to the edge of the bed, slipping to the floor to discard the rest of his clothing. Then, he resumes his position between my legs.

His hands, those rough and massive extensions of his body, reach around my back, and delicately flick the clasp of my bra. He slides the material down my arms, and I'm reminded of a sculptor examining his clay. His eyes glaze over, and his face transforms with a look I've already started to associate with Tim wondering how he'll make me come tonight.

He grabs my thighs unexpectedly, and I burst into surprised giggles as he knocks me off balance and pushes my back to the bed.

He reaches for my pants, and I lift my butt off the bed as he wiggles them off my hips and down my thighs. He lifts my knees, pulling my legs straight in the air as he pulls the fabric the rest of the way off my ankles. 

My panties are pink and lacy, and I put them on this morning with the sole intention of him taking them off at the end of the night. He groans at the sight of them, then reaches for me with reverence, gliding my underwear down my legs with a tenderness most wouldn't believe he possesses.

Heat burns up my chest at the way he gazes at me. I'm a feast, and he can't decide where to start. Tim lowers to his belly, hands running up the inside of my legs. When he parts my thighs, I throw my head back against the mattress, before rising on my elbows.

"I thought you said none of that?" I ask, already dripping in anticipation. Butterflies, or bees maybe, are buzzing in my bloodstream. My hips are already rocking in anticipation of what he does to me. My fingers flex, aching for something to latch between them.

"I need to taste you, Lucy, it's been too long."

It's been three days. But who's counting? He brought me home with him Friday night, and I didn't leave again until Monday morning. Today is only Wednesday.

His fingers dig into the flesh above my knees, which leaves me a panting mess on the bed.

I'm antsy and tense, my body screaming out for what only he can give me. 

His fingers are coarse against my skin, years of holding his cello to his heart, leaving permanent imprints on his fingertips. The texture feels divine, the perfect counterpart to the gentleness of his touch.

Last time he was searching, gentle. He was testing me like he would a new instrument. Tonight, he knows what strings to pluck to get the sound he wants. 

With a hand on either thigh, testing the boundaries of my flexibility, he buries his head between my legs, drinking me in like a parched man in the desert. His face is scratchy against my core, and I hope when I kiss him after this, I can smell myself against his face.

His tongue glides across my clit, flicking, and sucking on my most sensitive spots. He licks over his bite marks, all but faded into back into oblivion, when I moan, "Please," into space between us, and he renews his mark on my flesh.

My cry makes him growl against my skin. 

The sounds he makes. 

Oh,  _ God _ , the sounds he makes when he's eating my pussy. It's the way he sounds when he plays his cello, all sighs and moans, and gasps against my delicate places. He eats my pussy the way he performs, with all his heart and soul. With a skill level that can't be taught but learned from instinct and dedication alone. He eats my pussy with a determination that puts Olympic athletes to shame.

I could come strictly from the sounds he makes when he sucks my pussy between his lips.

I'm building fast. Euphoria and stress from the last hour combine with the pleasure Tim brings me in a lethal combination. 

"Not yet, Lucy. Not yet," he growls against my skin, but if he wanted me to hold back, he wouldn't have spoken at all. That honeyed voice vibrating against my pleasure center, the desperation in his tone, tips me over the edge, and I come in a glorious explosion. 

"Fuck," he moans, and I feel it in my core. He leaves my pussy and licks and kisses up my body, using his teeth against my hip while I'm still too blissed out to care about the extra burn. 

Before I can leave the warmth of my afterglow, he's between my legs again. With one arm under my knee, he centers himself on top of me and slowly sheaths himself to the hilt. 

His mouth never stops against my body, licking, tasting, sucking, and kissing. Before Tim, I never knew what it was like to crave another's flesh against your own. Now, I can't concentrate on anything but wanting him. I want to lick him back, to hold the taste of him in my mouth. 

But all I can do is lie here and moan, inconsolable with the sensation of him feasting on my body.

I sob against him, almost delirious with the feeling of him settled on top of me. His lips find mine, and he licks into my mouth, twirling with, then sucking on my tongue. 

When he lowers his weight onto his elbows, his chest pressing me into the mattress, I have to close my eyes at the vision of him mere inches above me. It's too much. It overloads my senses.

His muscles are hard and strained, the curve and arc of them vibrating under my hands. His thrusts are slow and tortuous, ringing me dry of every scrap of sensation I can give him. I'm quivering under his touch, breath coming in mewing gasps, and still, he never speeds his pace.

He dips, pushing until my bones grind against his own, then pulls, until I'm almost bereft of the feel of him. Over and over again, until I'm whimpering underneath him. 

" _ Please, please, please _ ," I beg, desperate to be freed from the prison of pleasure he's locked me in.

" _ Mi ami, Bambina?" _ He asks, and the waves of my passion build at the desperation in his voice.

His weight is pressing against me, and my arms entwine around his shoulders. He reaches behind him, caressing my leg as he goes, settling my legs higher on his back, and it deepens his angle, curling me up into his touch. 

_ "Più della lun e del sole," _ I open my eyes and gasp the words into his ear, and the secret of my knowledge is shared.

His groan is guttural, as realization dawns that I've understood every word he's said to me these last four months.

_ Do you love me, baby girl?  _

_ More than the moon and sun. _

He takes my hands in his, linking our fingers as he raises them above my head. His breathing becomes erratic, his thrusting frenzied. An urgency coats his movements, as he tries to climb into my body. 

When I crest around him, crying out his name, he lets my fingers slip from his grasp, wrapping himself around me. He kisses me with a fierceness that steals my breath, his hands slide underneath my body to hold me to him. 

He thrusts into me with power and passion until I feel him stiffen and pour himself inside me. 

"Say it," I pant, breathless against his body. "I want to hear to say it."

He crashes his lips to mine as my body breaks to pieces.

“ _ Ti amo, pizzola ragazza,” _ he whispers against my lips.

I love you, baby girl.

_ "Ti amo, anch'io, Tim." _

_ I love you too, Tim. _

My Tall, Dark, and Brooding.

_ The End _

**Author's Note:**

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> amandafayebooks.com  
> smarturl.it/amandafayebooks


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